How the Mighty Fall
by wcfarrow
Summary: [B1 of HTMF] Loners tumble into ShadeClan, seeking asylum. A mysterious tom appears on the borders, always vanishing like smoke. Territories are lost to hungry fires, warriors lost to sudden illness, and suddenly Stonetail's code does not explain every aspect of her life. Can she find certainty in the chaos, or will she fall along with the rest of her Clan?
1. PROLOGUE

_Fire. The acrid stench of smoke._

Two cats slink towards the edge of a forest, heads low, ears pricked, jaws parted.

 _Coughing. Crying. Screeching._

"If you hear anything, tell me. Understand?" The black tom fixes his tabby counterpart with a stern look.

"I understand," comes the solemn reply.

 _Two still shapes. Bodies._

"I don't want to end up like Mom and Dad."

"I understand," the tabby repeats softly.

 _A pair of yellow eyes._

The black tom cannot stop with the warnings, it seems. "He's never going to quit looking. He's going to follow us until we're both crowfood. He's dangerous."

The tabby understands. He nods, this time wordlessly, and follows his cautious companion into the wood.

 _Patience._

They are together, they have one another, and they will face the world.

Yet they are not safe.


	2. I - FAULT

"Put your weight into it, Thrushpaw!"

Stonetail can't help but sigh from her seat at the edge of the clearing. The air is warm, the sky clear, the world still. By all rights, the day should be a perfect one. But a small brown tabby struggles to knock her tortoiseshell opponent off balance in the clearing's center, and the other cat quickly retaliates with a heavy paw to the head, putting the tabby into the dirt almost effortlessly. This is enough to spoil whatever is left of Stonetail's day.

"Don't expose your belly!" the grey warrior shouts as the apprentices begin to roll across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dirt as they go, but the tabby seems unable to hear her mentor. Soon the other apprentice has her pinned down by the shoulders, belly up. It's almost pathetic how easily Thrushpaw has been trumped despite her twelve moons, especially since Redpaw is four moons her junior. If she can't muster up enough strength to train with a Clanmate, then the likelihood she'll survive a fight against full-grown warriors is slim to none. Stonetail's gut twists at the thought.

With a grunt, Redpaw springs away from Thrushpaw, who lies panting in the dust for a moment. "I'm sorry, Stonetail," the little apprentice murmurs, rolling onto her side. "I'm just not strong enough… Can't do it…"

It looks like Redpaw wants to stuff her fellow apprentice's pessimism back down her throat, but an intervention from her own mentor, Sunpelt, cuts her off just as she opens her mouth.

"How about Redpaw and I go check up on the BreezeClan border? You wouldn't mind telling Greystar where we went, would you, Stonetail?" But Sunpelt's request isn't so much a question as it is a polite way of saying that her apprentice would be better off doing something _useful_.

Stonetail resents that.

"Go on, then," she says, getting to her paws and forcing her pale fur to lie flat. "Do what you will." And that's the end of that. While Redpaw and Sunpelt make their escape (it's mighty kind of them to refrain from discussing Thrushpaw's poor performance until after they're out of earshot), Stonetail pads over to her apprentice, nudging her to her feet.

"I'm sorry," Thrushpaw repeats, but Stonetail sweeps her tail across the tabby's mouth, putting an end to whatever further apologies might lie in wait.

"What have I told you about apologizing?" the grey warrior asks, tail falling away to curl over her paws.

Thrushpaw hesitates, then mews, "That I don't have to."

"And what have I told you about saying that you can't?"

Again, a hesitation. "That I shouldn't."

"That's right. So why do you keep doing it?" Gently Stonetail begins to guide her apprentice towards the worn forest trail that leads to the ShadeClan camp. "I know you've beaten Redpaw before, and I know that you aren't just skin and bones, so why is it so hard for you to knock her off balance or pin her down lately? You have weight. You move well enough. You _can_ win these fights, but it's like you choose not to."

Thrushpaw ducks her head at this, suddenly finding her paws a fascinating subject. She and Stonetail pad along in silence for some time, slowly getting closer to their home deep in the pines, and it seems as if the air grows thicker and thicker between them with each pawstep. Communication has never been easy for them, but as of late, it's like pulling claws.

Stonetail's been through that before, of course. In her own apprentice days, she and her mother had fought about everything save for the real problems at hand. All of ShadeClan had known to steer clear of the pale leader and her hotheaded daughter when they began to snap at one another, and never in Clan history were so many patrols sent out under the guise of needing "extra border checks." In reality the borders were spotless, whereas the camp's atmosphere was positively toxic.

But that is the difference between Stonetail and Thrushpaw. While the grey she-cat has always been inclined to argue her way through a conflict, the tiny tabby simply bows out, allowing her aggressor to win. These fundamental differences have done nothing but pull mentor and apprentice farther apart over the moons, and with warrior assessments looming, there could be no worse time for such strain.

At the mouth of the hollow log leading into the heart of ShadeClan camp, Stonetail stops, barring the way. Thrushpaw, not looking where she's going, collides with her mentor's side and mumbles another apology before falling silent.

"Look," Stonetail begins, "I get that you don't like to fight. So be it. But this can't go on. Your Clan needs you to be ready for anything, whether 'anything' is better hunters in leafbare or stronger fighters when the borders are weak. ShadeClan takes care of you, and you have to take care of it in return.

"A warrior should represent their Clan to the best of their ability, and until you're willing to fulfill your obligations, I can't promise you'll receive a warrior name." As soon as the words leave her mouth, Stonetail wants to bite them back. Thrushpaw is her apprentice, and part of the responsibility for the tabby's training rests on her shoulders. Somehow, her mentoring has lacked a crucial component, an element that could transform Thrushpaw from docile to determined. Condemning the young cat for failures in Stonetail's teaching is unreasonably harsh, even cruel.

It's also what Greystar would do. It's what Greystar _did_.

By the time an apology gets caught in Stonetail's throat, Thrushpaw is gone, vanished into the pine forest without so much as a word. The temptation to chase after her is strong, and the growing need to protect her even stronger. If she can't fend off a fellow apprentice, a truly malicious threat could end her life. Someone has to be there!

"She won't learn to defend herself if you're always doing it for her." Stonetail is tensed to streak into the forest when her mother's voice puts a halt to such action. Rocking back on her haunches, she only just turns her head to watch the other she-cat pad past her and take a seat. It's kit-like conduct, but showing any more willingness to listen would feel wrong, even weak.

"Jumping after her isn't the answer," Greystar continues, tail swishing across pine needles to expose the forest floor. "Thrushpaw knows nothing of independence because you coach her too much. She doesn't explore, she doesn't challenge, she doesn't try a thing."

"And you're saying that's on me." Stonetail can't meet her mother's eyes and instead ducks her head like a kit caught stealing from the freshkill pile. If she were to look up, she knows she'll find cool green eyes staring back at her, coupled with Greystar's stoic, unreadable posture. She also knows she'll continue to say things that will bring nothing but regret come the following sunrise. As such, she remains absolutely silent, relying on the quiet to nurse her wounded pride.

Remarkably, Greystar does not push the subject. Instead she simply slides past Stonetail into the fallen tree, calling over her shoulder, "We can discuss it later. There are more important things to consider."

"What could possibly be more important than my apprentice?" Stonetail spits, following her leader nonetheless. Greystar does not respond, though, choosing instead to slip out of the log and step aside so that she no longer obstructs the view.

And what a view it is, too. In the center of camp, four warriors are needed to press two thin forms into the dirt. The cat on the right is broad-shouldered with a thick brown tabby pelt. One eye is swollen shut, likely from a blow to the head, and the other continues flicking sideways, desperately tracking every sudden movement his companion makes. Stonetail finds herself doing the same, fascination flickering in her chest. Though two of her Clanmates are pressing his muzzle into the dirt, the other tom bucks his shoulders and sinks his claws into the earth as if seeking purchase. All the while, his amber eyes seem to burn with untamed fire. Even with two healthy warriors on his back, this intruder knows nothing of defeat.

"They came into our camp," Greystar explains, striding towards the toms. "Two loners, claiming they need asylum from a murderer. When they refused to leave…" Her tail flicks sharply, and she expectantly fixes her eyes on Stonetail, a cue to finish where she left off.

"When they refused to leave, you did this," the warrior says, moving away from the camp entrance. Both of the toms briefly fix on her as if to assess whether she is a threat to them, but then resume their previous activities, the tabby watching helplessly and the black tom writhing as fiercely as before.

Greystar's patience must be wearing thin. With all the speed of a snake, she brings her paw down on the black tom's head, stunning him enough that he goes limp. "When they refused to leave," she corrects her daughter, "they became more important than your apprentice."

Stonetail finds herself inclined to agree.


	3. II - RESPONSIBILITY

By sunset, the loners have been subdued. Reluctant as ever, Robinfoot obeys Greystar's orders to treat the toms' injuries under the guise of a truce while simultaneously offering a poppy seed too many. Now an abandoned den houses two sleeping prisoners, and three warriors stand guard outside.

Stonetail wishes she could be one of those warriors, but Greystar has other tasks in mind for her. Against her will, the grey she-cat makes up one of a small council of five that is deliberating the loners' fate from within the spacious hollow log called the Great Timber. Naturally, Greystar heads the meeting, along with Oaknose and Robinfoot. To leave out the deputy and medicine cat in such an important decision would be scandalous at the least. A senior warrior's inclusion is standard practice as well, and so Darkfeather fills the fourth seat in the den. Only Stonetail is present without a traditional cause to be, and according to her mother, it is because she must learn to participate in Clan affairs. Stonetail snorts, but there's no sense in making a scene, so she joins the group and clamps her jaws shut to watch.

"Our options are limited," Greystar announces from her nest. "They want shelter, yet fought our warriors when we denied it to them, still insisting we hide them from a murderer. Apparently, they witnessed him kill someone, and they've been hunted since. But they've already showed extreme hostility, and continue to expect us to be gracious hosts. Personally, I'm of a mind to leave them at the borders with a warning, and if they persist, we won't be nearly so kind in sending them off."

The proposition has Oaknose nodding. "They don't deserve our protection," he adds gruffly, lip curling into a sneer. To his right, Robinfoot displays a very different expression, one of flat ears and wide eyes.

"Those toms are starving," the brown tabby says, tail sweeping around to cover his paws. "We would have to be heartless to turn away cats in need! I think it would be wiser to shelter them until they've regained their strength. That way, we keep the peace, but they don't have to stay. And no blood is spilled."

"Unless the murderer finds them in our camp!" Darkfeather's hackles rise, and Robinfoot shrinks, casting a desperate glance in Stonetail's direction as if seeking defense. "What happens then? How many ShadeClan cats will get hurt because of the business of loners?"

It is then Stonetail lifts her voice, surprising even herself. "We could take them in," she suggests. Four pairs of eyes lock onto her, each one asking the same question: Why?

"Did you not hear what I just said?" Darkfeather hisses. "They'll only put our Clan in danger!"

"They're an asset," Stonetail insists, getting to her feet. Her tongue moves of its own accord. "If a killer is following them, they can tell us what he looks like, and sooner or later we may need to know that. I don't know about you, but if a rogue is going to come through our territory, I'd sure like to know as much as I can about him before he puts a single paw over our borders."

The image of the black tom fighting for his freedom suddenly comes to mind, and Stonetail can't help but continue. "Besides, wouldn't it be good to have someone to fight this rogue? I bet they've seen some action, especially the skinny one. He didn't want to stay down, and we could use that. Even after this murder business is past, warriors like that could give BreezeClan or WillowClan a good fight in a pinch."

"That's two more mouths to feed," Oaknose growls.

"That's two more cats that can hunt," Robinfoot counters, finding the courage to speak once more. He shares a brief, grateful look with Stonetail, who returns it with an added twitch of her whiskers. The sense of triumph does not last long, though, as the small council simply continues to fling counterpoints back and forth with increasing animosity. Only Greystar's intervention brings the hissing and spitting to a halt.

"Enough!" One pale paw slams down, scattering moss, and four heads snap to attention. For a moment, all is silent in the den; no one dares risk interrupting their leader, and Greystar knows it. She surveys them all with her cold green eyes as if daring them to challenge her, and Stonetail pulls her paws closer to her body, reminded of all the moons she spent under such a scornful gaze. Such days put a bitter taste on her tongue, especially now, but once again, the need to please shoots through her veins, while the desire to protest makes her mouth dry.

Easing into her bedding again, Greystar has easy command of her council. "I've heard enough," she says, "and I need some peace to make my decision. Go resume whatever it was you were doing before, and if anything changes with the intruders before I make my choice, alert me. Now leave."

Darkfeather, Oaknose, and Robinfoot all slink out with their heads lowered, but for some reason, Stonetail cannot pull herself away from where she stands. Her throat constricts with the simple act of defiance, and when it releases, the dam breaks.

"You've already decided," she accuses Greystar. "You decided before anyone said a word. It was just for form, but you're still going to have your way. Typical."

"There are still details to consider," Greystar replies evenly, resting her chin on her paws, "and if you're done suggesting I called a meeting to listen to four cats babble, I'll make a suggestion of my own: leave my den."

There is nothing left to be said. Stonetail curls her lip in disgust, and as she leaves, the filthy scraps of moss that tumble towards Greystar's nose are not kicked that way by accident.

»»««

By sundown, Greystar has yet to give her verdict. It seems that the details she was compelled to consider are numerous or complex, or that the final judgment is a heavier one than anticipated. No matter, ShadeClan's leader has taken her time in laying down the fate of the loners, proving nothing is so simple as to be decided before advisors come together, and turning Stonetail's heated claim to dust.

To make matters worse, Thrushpaw has returned, but still has not spoken with anyone save for Robinfoot in passing. Their conversation appeared to be brief, but emphatic, and the medicine cat bounded to his den as if he had been told a particularly large rabbit was waiting there to be his dinner. Thrushpaw, though, padded on with barely a change in demeanor. The last Stonetail saw of her apprentice was her little tabby form tentatively nosing away the vines shielding Greystar's quarters from view.

"Tell me what else could go wrong," she grumbles, tucking her nose under her tail. Beside her, Lakewhisker gives a half-hearted chuckle.

"I think you've imagined every worst-case scenario for the moment. You don't need my help," he assures her, sweeping his tail over the crown of her head, a familiar gesture. Since kithood, in times of need, Stonetail always found solace in Lakewhisker. The old grey tom had been around as long as she could remember, and when Stonetail had found a close companion in his daughter, Streamheart, she had also found a confidant in Lakewhisker. He patiently listened to her troubles, no matter how small, as if she were his own child. It was his steady coaching and benevolent ways that had tempered the worst of Stonetail's aggression, and if she were to wish for a cat to call her father without question, she would inevitably wish for Lakewhisker.

Now, though she is grown and he is on the verge of retirement, he still willingly takes time out of his day to offer her consolation, and so she lifts her head in order to give his shoulder a grateful lick. From there, they sit in silence, watching the sun sink below the pines, casting the camp in a fiery orange glow. Though night is coming, ShadeClan is still very busy. A patrol is returning, the guard on the loners has shifted, and Sageflight's kits are hardly ready to surrender their moss ball in favor of rest.

The peace cannot last, though. A call comes from the crest of the Great Timber, a massive fallen log supported at one end by the only boulder in camp and at the other by the original stump, and Greystar perches at the very edge of it, surveying her camp. "Cats of ShadeClan, I have an announcement to make! Those old enough to catch their own prey should gather round."

Lakewhisker flicks his ears, rising to his paws. "That would be us, Stonetail. My apologies."

She gives her head a small toss and shrugs it aside. It's not his fault Greystar has once again disrupted what little peace her daughter has begun to find, and Stonetail knows the calm wouldn't have lasted long anyways. Something would have found a way to disturb it if Greystar had not.

At the base of the Great Timber, Stonetail sits in the growing shadow of a pine, pressing her paws into the soft blanket of shed needles as she waits. If this Clan meeting is not to give answers, the grey warrior wants no part in it, but there is an overwhelming likelihood that the decision has been made. The impulse to stalk off to her nest slowly subsides; she is interested.

"All of you know that today, two loners barged into our camp, demanding shelter and protection." Greystar paces up and down the edge of the log, tail erect and waving only just with her movements. "After a meeting and much deliberation I have come to the conclusion that these toms are to be given a choice. When they wake, they may leave, but they will be also offered a place in ShadeClan."

A few warriors (namely Darkfeather and Oaknose) burst into angry shouts at this, but a hush soon falls over the camp, and Stonetail finds her jaws gaping wide with surprise. Of all the ideas presented during the council, Greystar has chosen to accept the one her daughter proposed, and Stonetail wonders if perhaps she acted unfairly earlier; maybe there is a hope of working more amiably with Greystar in the future. _She listened!_

Once the Clan is silent again, Greystar moves on. "Should they accept, they will be under constant surveillance for at least a moon. Additionally, they will require mentors in the Clan ways. For this task, I have chosen two capable warriors who understand every facet of our code so that these loners have the opportunity to learn what it takes to be truly loyal to ShadeClan. Streamheart, Stonetail, your experience will be invaluable in this endeavor."

The illusion of cooperation shatters.


	4. III - STRIFE

While other cats form small clusters throughout camp, Stonetail ignores them all. Her pelt prickles with outrage, and unable to contain her fury, she swipes at the nearest pine. Sticky sap dribbles from the gouges she makes in the tree, and chunks of bark lodge themselves below her claws. She should care how uncomfortable the sensation is, and yet she does not.

The only thing on her mind is her punishment.

Greystar must have selected Stonetail to watch the loners as retribution for her cruel accusations following the council's dismissal. Insulted, it seemed like the pale leader wanted the final say in the matter. In fact, Stonetail realizes her accusations may have been true. Perhaps Greystar only chose to provide the loners asylum in order to spite her daughter.

Letting out a wordless, frustrated snarl, Stonetail pays no heed to the wary glances of her Clanmates and marches into Greystar's den. "They are not my responsibility!" she hisses, sinking her claws into a stray moss scrap when her mother does not turn around to face her. "Did you hear me? I will not be the one to look after them!"

Greystar flicks her ears, but remains curled in her nest. Her voice is low and stern. "Did you hear _me_?" she parrots. "You are not the only one who will be training them in our ways. Streamheart will join you."

"That's not what I mean!" Stonetail shouts. "Find someone else to hover over them, because I have other things to do. For StarClan's sake, I have an apprentice, and those loners are _not_ worth more than she is. Especially not now, not when she's so close to her assessments." The scene that afternoon bites at Stonetail. How is she supposed to make things right with Thrushpaw if she's busy teaching a loner basic Clan decency? Her apprentice has to come first, and as she opens her mouth to reiterate this, Greystar cuts her off.

"Thrushpaw is no longer your apprentice. She spoke to me earlier and admitted that she does not wish to be a warrior. I made arrangements for her to take up training as a medicine cat instead; Robinfoot will oversee her from now on."

The ground seems to fall out from beneath Stonetail. Thrushpaw wants to become a medicine cat? She wants to learn from someone else? It becomes horrifically clear how badly Stonetail has failed the little tabby. If she had just paid her apprentice the slightest bit more heed, if she hadn't been so insistent that Thrushpaw fight her way through training tooth and claw, then maybe it wouldn't come as such a shock that warriorhood isn't the proper path for Thrushpaw to pursue. Apologies pile up on her tongue, each one more panicked than the last, and Stonetail has to clamp her jaws shut to fight them.

"Additionally," Greystar continues, talking over any sounds of protest her daughter might choke out, "offering shelter was your idea. I don't recall anyone else making the suggestion that they could be useful to us if given the chance, and I will not put those loners in the care of someone who would rather drive them out. You made the suggestion, you no longer have an apprentice, and you will take responsibility for those toms. I did not raise you to develop solutions you are unwilling to implement yourself. Are we clear?"

And so it must be. Short of a physical altercation, Stonetail knows there is no way to get the better of Greystar. Unoccupied by mentoring duties and responsible for the invitation extended to the toms in the first place, she cannot give a reason to disobey her leader's commands beyond that of her own selfishness. The warrior code leaves no room for greed, a lesson she is coming to terms with the hard way, and so with nothing left to say, she slinks away from Greystar's cold gaze, burning with total humiliation. Her mother does not bother to call her back, either; the heavy silence means this matter is settled, though not by choice.

Head low, Stonetail automatically drifts toward the warriors' den. As an apprentice, she would often hide in her nest after a blowout with her mother, and typically remained until a senior warrior ousted her midway through the evening. The need to behave in this pathetic way rises like bile, sickly sweet in its own terrible way, and the grey tabby is tempted to give in. Let a senior warrior come for her; an apprentice no more, she will happily snap at anyone foolish enough to disturb her.

Yet she does not when Streamheart intercepts her at the den's mouth. "They're awake," the silver tabby says breathlessly, eyes flickering with unease. Unlike Stonetail, she has accepted her new duties, apprehensive but far from vehement or fickle. Stonetail feels shame bubble up again at the thought. What is wrong with her, refusing to serve her Clan as unflinchingly as her friend does?

Subduing the thought, she bobs her head stiffly, grunting, "Fine." Should she say any more than that, her complaints will resume and she will fail yet again to be as dedicated a warrior as Streamheart. She can't have this, and her friend seems to understand, as she does not press the issue in the slightest as they make their way to the toms' guarded den. The warriors standing guard, Pineheart and Sootwing, step aside on light feet to make way for the she-cats visiting their new charges.

Before they enter the den, though, Streamheart carefully looks Stonetail over. "What happened?" Her curiosity is gentle, and in the time it takes for the grey tabby to choke out, "I'm not a mentor anymore," Streamheart is nothing but patient.

"I'm so sorry," she says, running her tail over her friend's back before pulling it away and slipping into the den, aware that the grey she-cat needs solidarity but not coddling. Stonetail hesitates to follow, glancing over at Robinfoot's den. When Thrushpaw pokes her head out, focused on some task her new mentor has already given her, Stonetail rips her gaze away and steels herself to enter the loners' den.

The setting sun gives the inside of the den a warm glow, but even this is too bright for the toms. They both shield their eyes, still groggy from poppy seeds, and moan softly in relief when Streamheart and Stonetail block most of the entrance. "Thank you," the brown tabby mumbles, muzzle half hidden under broad, round paws that could put most others' paws to shame. Beside the tabby, the black tom simply keeps his eyes screwed shut, apparently not prepared to adjust to wakefulness. He says nothing, and only the slight fall of his jaw, revealing a pink mouth lined with sharp teeth, proves that he is more than a thin shadow on the den wall.

Streamheart is the first to break the silence. "How do you feel?" she asks, taking a seat. The loners groan in unison as sunlight passes through the den's entrance, and duck their heads toward the far walls.

"You could stay standing," the tabby says feebly, and to Stonetail's surprise, Streamheart gets back to her paws, letting cool darkness reign once more.

"Is that better?" she asks.

"Much."

The casual conversation is grating. Are they not here to give the toms Greystar's offer? Drawing herself up into as commanding a posture as she can muster with her heart sunk so low in her chest, Stonetail begins, "We have a proposal for you." The captives exchange a furtive look as quickly as a hare. Despite their encounter with poppy seeds, the grey warrior's words have earned their full attention, and it seems she would be unwise to waste time. While she still has their focus, she tells of them of the conditions under which they will be allowed to shelter with ShadeClan, though not without strain to her voice. The tabby is oblivious to this, but Stonetail does catch the slight squint of the other's amber eyes. When she finishes, he speaks for the first time, confirming her suspicions.

"You don't like this idea," he observes coolly. "If you don't mean it, how can we trust you?" So he's shrewder than anticipated. Stonetail is almost glad he understands the peril he and his companion may be in, as it could make cooperation far easier between them. If he is aware that one misstep will bring a horde of angry warriors down on him, he's unlikely to do anything more mouse-brained than ask questions requiring simple answers, and that isn't terribly intolerable compared to any fight he might put up. Stonetail would rather reason with him than back him into a corner that forces them to settle their disagreements through a scuffle. More than one warrior was needed to subdue him the first time around; when he recovers his full strength, it could take even more effort than that.

"We haven't decided if we can trust you," she replies, fighting a slight quiver in her voice. "I wouldn't have a problem toting your behinds around as some kind of mentor if you were just ShadeClan apprentices, but you're a couple of loners no one's ever seen before. Don't expect happy trails and all that fox dung until you can prove yourselves cooperative. Even better, prove you're loyal."

For a heartbeat, the black tom rocks on his haunches and shuts his eyes, fading into the gloom again. Then, they snap open, unclouded by indecision. Without consulting his friend, who appears to know when he should not speak, the loner says, "My name is Coal. This is Clay. We'll stay as long as you'll have us."


	5. INTERLUDE I

The cardinal rule of survival is "take what you can get." As such, Coal does not complain about the dampness of the den or the sparseness of his nest. He did not have to fight for these things; they were given to him, if grudgingly, by the ShadeClan she-cats, and he knows when it is wise to cherish a gift.

"We can try this, but only for a while," he eventually tells his brother, breaking the silence.

Clay, already quite at home in his pathetic pile of moss, rolls onto his side with a hearty "oomph!" Adjusting is his specialty. "I already like this place. Not a bad spot to be stuck for a moon. We have a roof over our heads, fresh moss, and somewhere to hide. What could be better?" He begins to wash his paws in contentment, untroubled by the possibility that ShadeClan's offer is not as splendid as it seems.

Resisting the urge to point this out proves difficult, but Coal swallows it along with any scathing comments it carries. Instead, he says, "I don't know about these cats. We have to watch our step here, Clay, or they'll be on us before you can even try to apologize."

"Are you asking me not to do anything stupid?" His brother's green eyes bore into him, wide and still plenty full of innocence.

"I guess I am." The black tom sighs and adds, "I know you're excited, but we're not out of the woods yet. If we put a toe out of line, I don't think we'll be welcome anymore, so just…"

"Be careful?"

"Yeah. Be careful."

Sobered by the heavy sentiments, Clay wishes his brother a good night before settling into a true sleep, one untainted by poppy seeds. But Coal stares out of the den until the moon reaches its peak, unable to bring himself to feel tired, not in the slightest. There is something about this place he cannot shake, and as the night wears on, it refuses to reveal itself to him.

Only when his head dips to his paws does he realize what troubles him. Across the camp, he can just see the vague shape of one of the she-cats from earlier. She is resting now, but he recalls her wide awake, cold, concentrating on something beyond her new charges. Her focus is striking, and Coal knows with all his heart that she is the one he and Clay must be wary of, as she will be the one to drive them out at their first mistake.

As he drifts off, taut as a wire, he pictures her hovering at his back, watching his every move with unflinching resolve. For some reason, though, her eyes are yellow.


	6. IV - ADAPTATION

In the morning, Stonetail has a moment of bliss where nothing exists but the warm sunshine above and the soft moss below, but then Sootwing pokes his head into the warriors' den, informing her that Greystar wants the loners to know their way around ShadeClan territory. The order, delivered apologetically as possible, still brings the events of the previous day crashing down on the grey tabby. Whatever rejuvenation she felt upon waking is crushed by the hollow feeling in her chest.

She isn't Thrushpaw's mentor. Not anymore.

"I'll be out shortly," she promises Sootwing, who hovers at the mouth of the den. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then vanishes. The early morning silence, punctuated only by the twitter of birds and soft murmuring from camp's center, lowers itself over her again. She revels in it, rolling onto her side and forcing her breathing into an even cycle. Maybe if she waits long enough, yesterday's events will prove to be nothing more than a foul dream.

Too much time passes, and the ache in her ribs remains. Chiding herself for believing it could all be a figment of her imagination, Stonetail rises to her feet and slips outside to face whatever is waiting for her.

»»««

It happens that Clay is waiting for her. Streamheart and Coal have already begun their tour of the pine forest, leaving the brown tabby to wait for his escort. Of course, he isn't alone; Darkfeather eyes him bitterly from her post beside the camp entrance, presumably assigned the role of sentry against her will.

"Took you long enough," the dark she-cat snarls, stalking past Stonetail when she comes within earshot. Then the grey warrior is alone with Clay.

He is quite unlike his brother. While Coal eyes everything with a fierce wariness, Clay's face is filled with wonder. He can't peel his gaze away from the soaring treetops, and a quiet, constant purr vibrates from deep in his broad chest. Only when Stonetail scuffs her paws over the earth to signal her approach does he look at her.

"Good morning!" There's nothing but cheer in his voice, and Stonetail hesitates as she examines the swelling over the ruddy tabby's eye. Her Clan gave him and his brother quite the beating yesterday, yet she can't imagine him bearing any ill will towards _anyone_. For some reason, the thought is comforting.

"Morning," she replies guardedly. In spite of the easy air Clay has, she hates to allow herself to be vulnerable, to make foolish mistakes, but he takes her by surprise all the same.

"Something was bothering you yesterday," he meows, cocking his head to gauge her reaction before continuing. "Whatever it was, I'm sorry."

Had she been that obvious? Before entering the loners' den yesterday, she'd summoned up her strongest façade, but it seems like that hadn't been enough. The fur along her spine lifts with shame, and she jerks her head towards the forest. "Follow me." And with that, she races into the pines, heading towards the WillowClan border.

Clay is not fast, but he has strength. When Stonetail lessens her vigorous pace to catch her breath, the brown tabby steadily catches up to her, just as languid as before. The journey hasn't tired him in the least.

"Is there something important here?" he asks, sniffing a pile of pinecones and recoiling when some of the sap sticks to the end of his berry-pink nose. Stonetail's whiskers quirk as she watches him try to paw it off, to no avail. The bemused attempts at cleaning up remind her of an over-curious kit attempting to hide all traces of mischief.

Flicking his side with her tail, she says, "No, nothing important. But there's a creek through this grove. That's the only way you'll get that sap off. Come on." This time, though, she doesn't dash ahead. Instead she sets a pace even with the tom's, her own curiosity beginning to get the better of her. At first, he is oblivious, but finally he catches her pale eyes roving over his body as if trying to discern meaning in his tabby stripes.

"Is everything okay?" His voice is a little thick; the sap is blocking one nostril.

Should she be honest with him? Stonetail considers a lie, but nothing reasonable comes to her. "Just…wondering what brought you and your brother here. To ShadeClan." There are places far beyond the Clans were loners could be welcomed openly, yet they chose to travel through the heart of occupied territory in search of protection. Why take such a risk?

"We didn't know," Clay explains ruefully. "Coal tries to keep us away from groups. He says if we stay away from other cats, then they can't tell anyone where we've gone. Coming here was an accident, but we had to make the best of it, I suppose." There's a distant expression on his face as if he doesn't believe his own words, and Stonetail has her suspicions as to why.

"Your brother says it was an accident. Not you."

Clay gives her a sidelong look before focusing ahead again, rolling his shoulders before taking another step. "Yeah. Coal says. But I…I don't mind it. We've been on our own for a long time. I don't see why we can't stop, even if it's only for a little while." The baleful glance he flashes Stonetail's way tells her the rest. He wants more than empty trails and a new nest every night, and the mere thought of such a day-to-day life exhausts the grey warrior. If it were her, she doubts she would last a day. How have the two brothers gone on for so long?

They don't speak the rest of the way to the creek. There, Clay scrubs the sap from his nose and Stonetail stares into the water until her charge announces he's done tidying up. After that, they simply tour the borders and return to camp with hardly a word. They've shared enough.

»»««

When Stonetail and Clay return from their tour of the borders, the sun is just beginning its slow descent. The tops of the pines take on a golden hue that proves both beautiful and distracting to the brown tabby tom, and Stonetail has to remind him of where he stands. "Get a mouse and go back to your nest," she tells him as they pass through the camp entrance. The words are not so much a command as a suggestion, though; the grey tabby is worn from the long trip around ShadeClan's borders, and has neither the energy nor wish to be harsh with Clay.

After a moment, Clay tears his eyes away from the orange sky and flicks his ears. "Thanks," he says unexpectedly, causing Stonetail to pause in the middle of the well-worn track leading out of the fallen log. Before she can formulate a response, though, Streamheart and Coal pad up.

"Oaknose wants us hunting," the silver tabby explains, not giving Stonetail a chance to ask nor a chance to rest. "He said we can go in twos again if that makes it easier. Clay, do you want to come with me this time?"

The big tabby lights up, tail curling over his back in delight. "Happy to! Stonetail showed me some of the better places to hunt, so I think I can help." The glowing pines had stolen his breath with ease, but Streamheart's offer has clearly returned it. Momentarily, they are ambling back into the wood, chatting amiably as if they are dear old friends.

"Suppose that leaves us, then." Coal is of infinitely fewer words than his brother, and Stonetail's shoulders sag with relief at the thought. She and Clay told one another more than plenty at the beginning of their day; the prospect of a repeat performance with the black tom is not only exhausting, but it needles at the grey she-cat's pride.

"I suppose it does." She says no more as she turns and slides back out of camp, though her belly chooses that moment to growl softly. Flicking her gaze to the side, she catches Coal's whiskers twitching before his expression goes blank. His awareness of his surroundings is baffling, and for a moment, Stonetail forgets she's staring.

"If you're looking for something to hunt, it's not in my fur," he growls. Then he drops into a crouch, jaws barely parting, and begins stalking towards one of the few maples that grow in the forest. With deliberate pawsteps, he makes his way to the base of the tree, a phantom sifting through pine needles. A heartbeat later, he bunches his hind legs and launches forward, muzzle vanishing into a hollow beneath the maple roots. When he lifts his head, a mouse dangles from his jaws.

 _I could have caught that!_ Stonetail fumes silently. There is absolutely no reason she shouldn't have scented that mouse, but until Coal's head appeared above the root again, she hadn't had the slightest idea there was prey anywhere nearby.

As if to add insult to injury, the black tom tosses the mouse at her feet. "I heard your stomach," he says by way of explanation. Then he scents the air again, already in search of another kill.

"We don't eat until we go back; kits and elders get first choice. The code says so." It's this part of the code that keeps her from ripping the mouse apart to sate her appetite, its edge already keen from the day spent wandering. Well, this part of the code and a streak of stubbornness as wide as the WillowClan river. She digs a quick scrape, laying the mouse inside, and covers it back up in spite of the tightness in her belly and the curious look Coal gives her.

They lock eyes for a moment, each sizing the other up. Stonetail expects some mouse-brained question about _why_ the code says who is fed first, but the loner surprises her by dipping his head. "Take care of your own first. I understand."

"You do?" The question escapes all too easily, and the ghost of fatigue flits over Coal's face.

"My brother's still alive, isn't he?" comes the cryptic reply.

It's easier not to speak after that. Instead, Stonetail and Coal prowl through the forest, one never quite leaving the sight of the other. The grey warrior keeps an eye on her charge because it is her duty, but she suspects he watches because he's spent most of his life looking over his shoulder. Despite their constant checking for a glimpse of one another's slim forms in the twilight, though, they manage a fair catch. Coal shows himself to be a superior mouser, plucking two more wriggling bodies from between tree roots, and Stonetail can't help but savor the exhilaration that rushes through her limbs when she leaps from a pine branch, claws dragging down jay in midflight. Even the rough impact with the ground does nothing to dull the adrenaline in her veins, and she hardly registers the unfamiliar scent at the pine's base past the warm blood of the jay filling her mouth.

By the time the moon lounges on the horizon, accompanied by glittering stars, Stonetail and Coal are depositing three mice, one jay, and a squirrel onto the fresh-kill pile; the last is a surprise kill that happened to shoot across their path on the return trip. Stonetail had been the one to make the catch, springing directly into its path and closing her jaws around its neck, perhaps a bit by luck. But no one in camp complains about good luck, not even Greystar, nodding approvingly from her den before vanishing between the vines, and so the squirrel is gratefully accepted by old Brightface.

Limbs aching from the effort of the day, Stonetail finally allows herself to drag a shrew from the pile, bidding a goodnight to Coal out of reflex. He blinks twice, stock still, before wishing her the same and slipping into the den he shares with his brother. As the last of his tail disappears, Stonetail lets the memories of the day disappear also, focusing solely on the feeling of soaring through the air in pursuit of the jay, followed by the jarring collision with the earth. Even so long after, it sends a thrill all the way to her toes, such a thrill that she is totally unable to recall the faint, unrecognizable scent that had been present where she snapped the bird's neck in two.


	7. V - EXCHANGE

After two sunrises, Streamheart decides it's time for a change. Over a breakfast of mice, she tells Stonetail, "Coal knows his way around the territory. We should be teaching them to fight like ShadeClan cats now."

Stonetail nearly chokes on a small rib. "Already?" she wheezes, ducking her head until the bone reappears in the grass, slick with saliva. Cringing, the grey tabby looks back at her friend. "Shouldn't we do hunting techniques first and really prove they know their way around? Coal may have the land memorized, but I can't say for sure if Clay's been paying attention." It is a fair concern; the ruddy brown tom spends most of his time chattering away whether Stonetail is listening or not. If he knows ShadeClan's landmarks, he certainly doesn't talk about them.

This doesn't dissuade Streamheart. She neatly severs her mouse's tail and casts it aside to finish the bulk of the meat. Through a full mouth, she exclaims, "We need them to be ready to fight like us, not hunt the same way we do! Didn't you hear what the patrol found by the WillowClan border?"  
"No. What?"

"They found cat scent this morning!" Streamheart's blue eyes flash conspiratorially as she adds, "But it's not WillowClan at all. Pineheart said she almost missed it, but it's definitely there."

Somehow, Stonetail does not share the silver she-cat's excitement. Foreign scents rarely bode well, and it strikes her that her hunt with Coal took place near the very border in question. Suddenly the faint scent she had ignored in the heat of catching her jay causes her stomach to twist. She pushes her breakfast away.  
"Let's teach them," she agrees without explanation, rising to her feet. "It's probably best."

"Meet you in the grove, then. You get Clay, I'll get Coal." Streamheart takes the scraps of Stonetail's mouse, not bothering to ask and most certainly not wasting good prey. Bobbing her head in agreement, Stonetail pads towards the elders' den where she can see Clay's thick tail twitching in the entrance. He's taken a liking to Brightface, who tells superb legends about the first Clans. The brown loner often hovers by the patchy old tom like an apprentice, listening to traditional ShadeClan lore.

Stonetail hopes Clay is as good at telling stories as he is at sitting through them. There's one tale she's eager to hear, and as she beckons him away from Brightface's nest, she asks, "What can you tell me about this murderer you're running from?"

»»««

By the time they arrive at the grove, Clay has proven himself a horrific storyteller. His order of events is jarring, sometimes repetitive or cyclical, and he has an overwhelming tendency to recall only his own point of view, however narrow, over most everything else. The only thing of value Stonetail gleans from the convoluted tangent is a description about a half-remembered scent.

"Like a ghost. Or smoke." Clay shudders, broad shoulders shaking in what would be a comical way if his tone weren't so cautious. "It doesn't smell good, but it's hard to notice. And it means he's catching up." Despite obvious efforts to remain upbeat, a thin film of fear slides over the tabby's eyes. A pang of sympathy erupts in Stonetail's chest, and she opts to keep the border patrol's discovery a secret. Disrupting Clay's focus any more than she already has before training could lead to injuries easily avoided.

Patting his side with her tail, Stonetail leads him through a cluster of beech trees that open to an oblong hollow mere tree-lengths from camp. The ground is soft, almost sandy, and a break in the canopy overhead provides bright, clear light broken only by branches that stretch across high above. Waiting in the center of this clearing, to the grey warrior's surprise, is not only Streamheart and Coal, but Redpaw, Thornpaw, and their respective mentors, Sunpelt and Darkfeather. The warriors do not seem pleased to be present, but their apprentices are tussling in the dirt as if unbothered by the prospect of training in the same place as the loners. When they spot Clay, though, they break apart and bombard him with questions.

"Where are you from?"

"Who wants to kill you?"

"Your brother doesn't talk much. Doesn't that annoy you?"

Darkfeather interrupts, giving Thornpaw a light cuff over the head. "You're here to train, not trade stories. Hush." There's a rare fond note to her voice as she addresses the golden tabby, but the cool stare she fixes Clay with does not match so closely. Clearly the loner has not yet earned her favor.

Before the tension can escalate, Streamheart steps away from Coal to address Thornpaw and Redpaw. "You can ask them questions later. For now, though, we need you to do us a huge favor." The apprentices light up at Streamheart's words, immediately forgetting Darkfeather's overbearing presence.

"What is it?" Redpaw demands, ears pricked forward.

"Coal and Clay need to learn how ShadeClan cats are supposed to fight, especially when they're outnumbered, and we want you to help teach them." Stonetail realizes instantly that this is a ruse meant only to secure the apprentices' attention, and it strikes her that Streamheart has excellent foresight in recruiting the eager young cats. Alone, she and Stonetail could easily train the loners in the ShadeClan way of combat, but in the event of betrayal, it would be two against two with no guarantee that Coal and Clay could be defeated. With Sunpelt, Darkfeather, and their two apprentices, though, the numbers have become six against two. Some of the tightness leaves Stonetail's shoulders, and she takes a seat towards the edge of the clearing to watch. Shortly, instructions given, Streamheart joins her, while Sunpelt and Darkfeather sit opposite them.

"Clay first!" the silver tabby calls out, tucking her forepaws neatly below her chest. "Claws sheathed, and keep fighting until I give the word to stop. Redpaw, Thrushpaw, as you go, try teaching him what to do to block your attacks." And with that, Clay finds himself subjected to much battering from the young cats. He'll be fine, though, Stonetail knows, so she takes the opportunity to speak with her friend.

"Good thinking, getting the others," she says quietly, watching as Clay springs away from a two-pronged assault.

"Thought it was safer," Streamheart replies. She yells at Redpaw to keep her claws sheathed before adding, "But I almost couldn't get Darkfeather."

"No?"

"She didn't want to risk Thornpaw getting hurt. Got her to cave when I promised Sunpelt was already bringing Redpaw." Streamheart's whiskers quirk, and she casts a sideways glance at Stonetail. "Of course, I had to promise Sunpelt the same thing, but…" She trails off with a purr Stonetail is inclined to share. It is cut short, however, by Clay yowling in pain.

"She bit me!" he cries, withdrawing from the center of the hollow to hurriedly swipe a paw over his ear, while Redpaw mumbles something about getting carried away. Stonetail itches to scold the tortoiseshell, but with Sunpelt present, she bites her tongue. Redpaw is not hers to correct, and yet when Sunpelt says nothing to reprimand her apprentice, the pale tabby wishes she had spoken out as soon as the urge presented itself.

The time to act is past, though. Coal gives his brother's ear a quick inspection before sending Clay to face Redpaw and Thornpaw once more. At first, the tabby seems reluctant to go through this again, but something changes the moment the apprentices are upon him. Before, he was merely reacting to each attack, his counterstrikes barely delivered before the next assault came. Now, Stonetail can see that he is anticipating how the apprentices will throw themselves at him next. His heavy paws, which had appeared to be a hindrance, are beginning to meet the younger cats in midair, sending them sprawling, forcing them to reconsider their advance. Clay truly begins using his larger build to his advantage.

Eventually Streamheart calls a halt to the fight, asking Coal and Clay to trade places. "Did I do okay?" Clay pants, pawing at the scab forming on his ear. Despite this, his eyes are bright with excitement. Even when his flaws are pointed out (Streamheart informs him that he lacks the evasive technique required of ShadeClan maneuvers), his enthusiasm does not wane. He simply drops himself to Stonetail's right and purrs heartily as Coal's bout begins.

Having missed the arrival of the brothers and the scuffle that followed, Stonetail is eager to see how Coal performs. After all, it took multiple warriors to best him the first time; he could easily be capable of fending Redpaw and Thornpaw off.

And fend them off he does.

Initially Coal hesitates to act. His spine is rigid as he stares down his opponents, but the moment Redpaw snakes forward, reaching to sweep his paws out from beneath him, he exhibits an astounding change. With a bound, he lands behind the tortoiseshell, nose to nose with Thornpaw, who has no time to react as Coal taps him over the head with one paw while hooking the other around his forelegs and pulling. The golden tabby collapses into the dirt, and moments later, Redpaw crashes onto his back with a cry, propelled there by Coal's hind legs as he rolls onto his back, exposing his belly in order to kick her along. In real combat, the move is horribly uncertain, and yet it seems like he has had practice.

"Again," Stonetail demands, eager to see more, but Darkfeather rises, shaking her broad head.

"Enough," she counters. "My apprentice was here to train, not take a beating from a cat twice his size. If you want to train your loners any further, don't ask for our help."

"This is your problem, not ours," Sunpelt adds, stalking towards the trail to camp. Redpaw is at her heels shortly, and then they are gone, only the scent of their disdain in their wake.

"I didn't want to hurt them," Coal says quickly, looking to Streamheart and Stonetail. His eyes flicker between them and the track to camp, and as if he is suddenly made aware of his shift in demeanor, he sits without further comment. His paws press together as he waits for a response that no one is eager to give.

Stonetail finds silence preferable here. Her sharp tongue is often at its worst in the face of difficulty, and if she speaks, it's all too likely that she'll condemn Darkfeather and Sunpelt for protecting their apprentices, a reasonable action. But how much of their action was in the interest of Redpaw and Thornpaw's well-being? Clay did not harm them so much as he rolled them away like they were mere kits, and Coal was curiously methodical, acting in short, swift strikes that did no more than take the apprentices' legs out from beneath them. Neither young cat sustained injury beyond their wounded pride.

"We know," the grey warrior finally answers. "But they don't like you."

"We haven't hurt anyone, though," Clay protests. "We're just…passing through." He and his brother exchange a glance, each one echoing a very different sentiment, before looking back at the she-cats. "It's safe here…"

"That's the thing: ShadeClan is safe. But you two are being hunted! You've got a murderer on your heels, and this is where he's going to come looking eventually." Stonetail dips her head towards Clay. "You're scared of him, and I don't blame you. But now the rest of the Clan is, too. We've had peace for the last few moons, but this cat might change that. For the worse, I might add."

Streamheart's fur prickles, and before Stonetail can continue, she interjects. "The Clan doesn't hate you," she tells the loners. "They're afraid of what you might have brought with you. If it isn't change for the better, they don't want to see it. At all."

Coal's hackles raise, and for the first time, so does his voice. "We didn't ask to have a killer three steps behind us, or to sleep in old badger sets every other night, or to eat crowfood while we pass through Twolegplaces. We didn't ask for any of it, but here we are! So I'm sorry if trying to stay alive is an inconvenience to your comfortable little Clan!"

"We never said it was an inconvenience," Stonetail shoots back.

"You think we don't see you dragging your feet whenever you take us into the forest? Or how tired you sound whenever you have to explain something new? It doesn't have to be said; you act like you've always got something better to do even when your leader tells you to train us," Coal spits. There's a faint flash as sunlight reflects off his unsheathed claws, and Stonetail mirrors his hostility, ears flattening against her skull.

"I lost my apprentice!" she shouts, ripping up the grass underfoot in an effort to ground herself. Maybe if she tears at the earth, maybe if her claws pick and pull at dirt, then she won't do anything mouse-brained. "I couldn't train her, and instead of getting a second chance, a _real_ second chance, I got stuck with you two. Now I get up every morning and have to teach two fully grown cats things that _kits_ ought to know, so I'm going to be tired. I'm going to drag my feet! I traded everything for this. This was not how it was supposed to be!"

"Stuck with us?" Clay gently intrudes. His whiskers droop pathetically, and he takes a couple ginger steps away from the ShadeClan she-cats to stand closer to his brother. However, as he opens his mouth to speak again, presumably to ask why she would say such a thing, Coal snaps.

The black tom launches himself at Stonetail, claws outstretched, and the pale she-cat's training responds before the rest of her can catch up. One moment, her claws are sunk into the dry earth, and the next, she is sailing through the air to counter Coal's advance. They meet on the edge of the clearing and fall to the ground, sending up a great cloud of dust. Streamheart's surprised screech is distant past the blood roaring through Stonetail's ears, and somewhere beyond the scuffle, Clay cries out. But then there's nothing but the heat of the fight, the tightness in her gut, the insatiable need to _win_. Without thinking, Stonetail sinks her claws into Coal's shoulders and rolls, taking his lithe form with her through the dirt. When she intends to stop, leaving her safely on top, though, he returns the favor, digging his own claws into her forelegs and making use of her momentum to reverse the situation. Once he has the advantage, he springs away to let her up, at which point he aims a sharp blow towards the side of her head. She ducks just in time, letting his claws whistle past her ears, but the top of his head surges up beneath her chin, colliding with what feels like the full force of StarClan behind it. Her vision turns spotty for mere seconds, and in that time, Coal is beneath her, tossing his shoulders to send her sprawling through the dirt.

"Coal, don't!" Clay shouts, but neither combatant seems interested in the ruddy tabby's suggestion. The black tom ignores his brother, instead rearing up over Stonetail, front paws poised to slam down onto her spine. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, though, and that is enough time for the grey tabby to risk rolling onto her back just as the loner did to Redpaw. Her hind paws catch Coal into the gut, driving an "oomph!" from him before flinging him towards the trail to camp. She follows him, and just as her claws are at the tip of his tail, a solid force crashes into her side, pinning her to the ground. Spitting the dirt from her mouth, she finds that the heavy paws on her back belong to Streamheart, and that Coal has been similarly trapped by his brother.

"Enough!" Streamheart snarls, cuffing Stonetail over the head. Her paws are not small, and the blow seems to rattle Stonetail's fangs in her mouth. "We're all sorry Thrushpaw decided to become a medicine cat and that this is the first thing Greystar asked you to do after that, but you're forgetting I'm doing the same thing you are. You aren't alone, so quit acting like it.

"As for you," the silver tabby hisses, blue eyes focusing on Coal. The lean tom shakes Clay off and licks his shoulders as if ignoring her, but his ears swivel her way after a moment. "You say you don't want to hurt anyone, but that didn't look like play fighting. It looked bitter and angry, and I'm not impressed. By _either_ of you."

With that, she removes her paws from Stonetail's back and lowers her voice so only her fellow warrior can hear. "Go cool off. Hunt, check the borders, anything. Make yourself useful, and don't come back until you can look them in the eye without wanting to take their noses off. Understand?"

And she does. Though she can't bring herself to say it, Stonetail understands Streamheart much more clearly than she would like to. "As long as you handle them," she mutters before turning to slip into the cool forest. As she goes, though, she catches Clay watching her with his wide green eyes, following her movements until she's gone from view.

The silence of the forest, with its dappled sunlight and faint breeze, leaves Stonetail with nothing but her own thoughts for company. Slinking along the creek that leads to the WillowClan border, she allows herself a moment to reflect. She's disappointed herself, that much is painfully clear. She should have never retaliated against Coal's attack like a typical apprentice might be wont to do. But it occurs to her as she passes through the stream that if StarClan put her under oath and asked what the worst part of the failed training session was, there would be a far worse answer.

"I'm a mouse-brain," she mutters, shaking droplets of water from her paws before picking up her pace. She's disappointed Streamheart, not to mention Coal and Clay, and failing to meet their standards stings worse than failing to meet her own.

True to Streamheart's orders, Stonetail does not return to camp until the hot rush in her veins has subsided. The moon, almost full, hovers overhead as she nods on her way past the night watch. Her jaws are full of feathers, sleeping robins snared from their nests, and before she returns to her own nest for the night, she deposits the plump bodies at the mouth of the loners' den, tucking them just inside where an owl would not risk swooping down to steal them.

Come morning, one black paw sweeps them inside.


	8. VI - WORRY

Stonetail keeps her distance for two days. It is in part a request, quietly given to Streamheart the morning following the incident with Coal, and in part a command, passed from Greystar to Lakewhisker and ultimately to Stonetail.

At that time, Lakewhisker told her to "do something relaxing for a couple sunrises," and she had. Ignoring the tug in her gut when she caught sight of Streamheart and the loners training or chatting or simply being amicable, Stonetail rediscovered what it felt like to hunt and patrol in a functional unit. There was a freedom she had forgotten in the moons spent training Thrushpaw, and it breathed new life into her paws. So reluctant to step away from her duties as a mentor on the first morning, she found herself disappointed when her border patrol came to a close the evening after. Returning to camp meant that this brief excursion as an average, unburdened warrior was drawing to a close.

But then came the rain, putting her unconventional duties at bay.

Now, huddling within the warriors' den for warmth and awaiting the return of patrols trapped in the downpour, Lakewhisker says, "Greystar wants you to resume with the loners when the rain passes. She has also asked that you attend the Gathering tonight."

Lightning illuminates the den in brief flashes, but it is enough for Stonetail to see the old tom's concern by.

"What is it?" she asks bluntly. "You're worrying." She's seen the expression Lakewhisker is wearing many times in her life, but most frequently when he could only stand aside and watch as Greystar solidly ended yet another argument.

"She expects much of you," the old tom admits as a peal of thunder passes, "and I feel as if you think yourself…incapable."

"She _demands_ much of me, more than any warrior ought to be capable of," Stonetail counters, though not without an uneasiness to her tone. Lakewhisker's troubled demeanor takes no reassurances from this.

"That is because she believes you _are_ capable. Stonetail, look at your lineage. You are the daughter of Greystar, in turn the daughter of Flowerstar, in turn the daughter of two fine ShadeClan warriors. If you were to travel further down that line, I am confident you would find legends, warriors we can only dream to be. A family built on strength and greatness? It is in your blood, and your mother knows it. She only wants to draw it out of you."

"When you put it like that, it feels like she's only checking to see if I'm really her daughter at all. For someone with all that greatness," –here her lip curls into half-hearted snarl– "I've already lost one apprentice, been saddled with two more who aren't Clanborn, and caused arguments with all three in less than a moon. Some blood I've got." Stonetail drops her chin to her paws and stares out at the pouring rain as it drills into the earth. It creates a shimmering curtain so thick that seeing across camp is impossible; the grey tabby lets herself gaze absently into the haze. Somehow, between the constant motion of the rain, the shrieking winds, and the symphony of thunder overhead, it's easy to get a little lost, so easy that Lakewhisker's voice is jarring despite the way it retains its usual, soothing tone.

"Please try to understand," he says, "because it may do you more good than you realize. And…"

"And what?" Stonetail avoids his plea, and with it the expectation of a promise she might not keep. Beside her, Lakewhisker sighs in defeat.

"And the Gathering will be good for you, too."

With that, the old warrior curls into himself and appears to drift off to sleep. Stonetail is left awake, watching raindrops burst against the ground. For a brief, brief moment, she imagines the raindrops as every opportunity she's ever been given: bright, shining, and gone all too soon.

She turns her back on the rain to wait for moonrise.

»»««

The last patrol to make it home through the torrent is Greystar's. Long after the sky finally reclaims its expanse, sending the billowy clouds away to reveal rising stars, four sodden shapes become visible plodding through the camp entrance. Greystar is at the head, ears pinned back and eyes blazing, while Stormfoot, Oaknose, and Pineheart are close behind. All are equally bedraggled, and Oaknose's hulking form is especially comical with his fur plastered so close to his body. However, no one is laughing.

"Those going to the Gathering, get out here," Greystar snaps, dismissing Pineheart with a curt nod. Stormfoot and Oaknose remain, clearly set to attend the meeting, and Robinfoot appears almost instantly with Thrushpaw scampering along at his side. Stonetail's stomach knots at the sight; how could it not, seeing the little tabby so eager with her new mentor in spite of the dreary weather? But she doesn't allow herself to delay much longer, and instead trudges out to join the party. Behind her comes Sootwing, and from the loners' makeshift den, Streamheart emerges. Only Thornpaw, Brightface, and Poppywing are added to the entourage, and though everyone eyes Greystar uneasily, no one breaches the silence.

Her patrol must have seen something. _She_ must have seen something. And each and every cat present knows that whatever that might have been, their leader does not like it. As such, the uphill route to the Gathering, one usually populated with easy chatter and hushed wishes for peace, is eerily quiet. An occasional bird call pierces the air, often discordant where it should be lovely, and there is a faint pitter-patter as rainwater trickles from the tops of the trees.

At the front of the party, Greystar holds conversation with her deputy and medicine cat in muted tones. Pricking her ears, Stonetail hears something about omens and danger, along with Robinfoot's assurances that, "no, that could not be from StarClan," before Streamheart slinks up alongside her.

"Do you think she's angry?" the silver tabby whispers, jabbing her nose in their leader's direction. Normally, she cares not for gossip, but the agitation rolling off Greystar in waves generates far too many questions, and of course, Stonetail is the resident expert on the grey leader's fury.

"I'm not sure," she replies honestly, straining to pick up the soft conversation once more, but it seems the discussion has ended. The grey tabby flicks a stray raindrop from her ear, disappointed. "This isn't angry like I've seen, though. I'm used to…cold angry. Not this." She can't remember a time in her life when Greystar looked so ferocious, hackles raised and fur bristling down to the tip of her tail. Never has her leader exhibited behavior suggesting anything other than the idea that she is in total control, and yet she displays her emotion for all of the Shadeclan party to see.

As the cats begin to crest the hill, Stonetail opens her mouth to admit that she does not like this strange development, but the pungent odor of smoke assaults her; she chokes instead. Around her, so do the others, and those who catch their breath are the first to cry out when the see the source.

Atop the rise, no one can ignore the blazing fire that consumes WillowClan's territory. It roars in the distance, licking at the riverbank, hungry and fierce. The waters glow golden by the inferno's light, and overhead, birds shriek and squawk as they wheel away.

But the ShadeClan cats do not wait long. Greystar chose her company well, and there is not a soul present who doesn't plunge down the slope. Even the elders, old as they may be, race alongside their Clanmates towards the base of the hill, at which point their leader veers away from the river, instead making her way towards the BreezeClan border.

"It spread!" Stonetail hears her shout. "Thornpaw, Brightface, Poppywing, Stormfoot, go to the border and turn them back! The rest of you, follow me." She flicks her tail towards the low hollow in the distance: the Gathering Place.

Stonetail's gut lurches. The trees surrounding the hollow are pines like those in ShadeClan, and in early greenleaf, they can be dry, even brittle in spite of the rain. If so much as a spark drifts across the river, the Gathering Place will be lost to the flames.

"BreezeClan might already be there!" Streamheart cries, likely coming to the same conclusion.

"WillowClan would go there first for help anyway," Greystar replies over her shoulder. "And they probably think crossing the river into neutral territory is safest."

Suddenly it strikes Stonetail that all along, Greystar had not been angry so much as she had been fearful. The flattened ears, the terse commands, the lashing tail; all had been a mask, donned to keep ShadeClan from faltering. Now, though, fear-scent hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the stench of smoke. The grey tabby smells her own fear intermixed with the terror of her Clanmates', rank and unwanted, and yet she continues to bound toward the hollow, where new fear-scent enters the air.

WillowClan is alone, gaunt and blackened by ash. They huddle together beneath the boughs of a pine, apprentices at the center beside an elder, a queen, and two mewling kits. Encircling them is a ragged group of warriors that wheeze with every movement. Among these cats is the WillowClan leader, Featherstar, her white fur turned dark and patchy with soot. "Greystar," she rasps, rising to meet the ShadeClan cats as they careen down into the hollow. There is a tremor in her step, but she holds her head high as if greeting her fellow leader to a proper Gathering.

Greystar wastes no time with formalities, though. "Gather your Clan and leave the hollow," she says, nodding at the cluster of cats. "The pines could catch fire any moment. It isn't safe here."

Featherstar looks as if she wants to refuse, but an ember drifts past her nose, shining bright. For a moment, she appears transfixed, and then a wave of heat suddenly blows through the clearing, accompanied by a storm of sparks. As predicted, the first pine begins to flame, and the WillowClan leader is left without a choice.

"Go!" she shrieks, nosing warriors to their feet. Most stumble, coughing, and of all the ShadeClan cats, Streamheart, Robinfoot, and Thrushpaw are the first to rush to their aid. An instant later, Stonetail dives forward with the rest, at first aiming to help a patchy black-and-white she-cat to her paws. But this is Cloudwing, the deputy, and she will take care of herself. As Stonetail swerves aside, her sights fall on a skinny grey apprentice who stands gaping at the rising flames. Taking the small cat's scruff in her jaws, she sprints toward the hollow's edge, where her Clanmates are slowly bolstering WillowClan up the uneven slope. As she goes, she spots Streamheart ushering old Sandstripe along, and Thrushpaw is not far behind with a tiny black kit in her jaws. The kit's littermate dangles from Robinfoot's mouth, and the medicine cat supports their mother as she crests the hollow's lip. In this manner, slowly but surely, all the exhausted cats remove themselves from immediate peril. However, they are hardly free from danger. Behind them, the pines left untouched by flame are slowly approaching their ends as their burning fellows tremble and creak, shaking stray bursts of flame onto the boughs of their neighbors. It will not be long until the entire Gathering Place is consumed.

Turning her back on the fire, Stonetail heaves a sigh past the bundle of fur still in her jaws. Her heart is pounding in her chest like a trapped rabbit, but at least the worst of the blaze is behind them. Shoulders sagging, she falls into the crowd of cats as they begin padding away from the hollow. Above the crackle and snap of the fire, she hears a wheeze to her left, a coughing fit to her right. The sounds of exhausted cats surround her, punctuated occasionally by Featherstar calling out the names of her Clanmates to be sure everyone is present. "Webfeather? Good, there you are. Frogthroat? Thank StarClan. Mistpaw?"

Here, the apprentice Stonetail carries makes a feeble sort of squeak, and somehow her leader hears. Acknowledging the small cat with a nod, Featherstar moves on, calling out, "Toadpaw?"

There is no answer.

"Toadpaw, speak up," the WillowClan leader says firmly, stopping at the head of the party to search for the apprentice in question. But Toadpaw does not make a sound. Instead, one of the bedraggled warriors, Webfeather, lets out a horrifying screech before pushing through the cats around her, racing towards the blaze. The fogginess of shock slows the reactions of those closest to the horrified she-cat, and before those at the tail of the group can come to their senses and move to stop her, it's already too late. Crying the missing apprentice's name, she dives into the hollow, and moments later, one of the first pines to burn shudders and sways before falling with an almighty crash.

The two Clans watch in horror as smoke climbs higher into the sky, beginning to blend with the gathering wave of storm clouds. Some make their loss known, yowling to the stars and moon. Frogthroat, the tom called on before Toadpaw, howls in outrage. "Tonight was supposed to be peaceful! Where's our peace, StarClan? Where is it?!" Even when BreezeClan arrives, accompanied by the remainder of ShadeClan's original Gathering party, Frogthroat is still cursing every last star in the sky. Not even his Clanmates can console him, and as if from within a bubble, Stonetail hears someone remark on how sad it is to watch a warrior fall apart so swiftly.

But she can't find it sad. She can see the anger and fear and budding hate for a world cruel enough to steal cats away in fire, but it isn't sad. Much more heartbreaking is the apprentice still hanging from her mouth. Since Webfeather charged to her death in the hollow, Mistpaw has said but two words in the plainest of whimpers.

The first was "brother."

The second was "mother."

And since then, she has said nothing at all. Even when the three leaders agree to divide the remainder of WillowClan among ShadeClan and BreezeClan until they can recover, even when Mistpaw is selected for the ShadeClan division, even when Frogthroat has to be ripped away from his mourning by Featherstar herself, the grey apprentice does not speak a word.

Rain breaks out again as the Clans diverge, first a drizzle and then a downpour, muddying the path home. Most of the WillowClan cats insist on holding their own over the slippery earth, particularly Frogthroat, who seems to steam as rain rolls off of his pelt. His anger has not abated; rather, it fuels each step he takes into the heart of ShadeClan territory. Beside him, a she-cat named Rivershine seems to share in his fury, lithe body taut with the effort of controlling her emotions. Stonetail can sense her turmoil, though, as she steps into the pawprints left in the mud; Rivershine's are wide and deep, pressed in with the force of fear and rage.

Eventually, despite tensions running at a high, the cats reach camp, soaked to the bone with ears pinned flat to their skulls. Featherstar and Greystar hold a brief council before the WillowClan cats break away to make themselves comfortable in whatever nests they can find; most follow Poppywing and Brightface to the elders' den, where they are more welcome than with warriors who have yet to learn about the terrible events that waylaid the Gathering. It is here that Stonetail finally, _finally_ lets Mistpaw go, setting the pale apprentice down beside her Clanmates, who immediately pull her into their fold once more.

"Thank you," says a tabby she-cat as Stonetail moves to exit the den. The WillowClan warrior glances back at Mistpaw, who, in light of the tragedy, seems no older than a kit. Then she adds, "She lost her father tonight, too. Eelsplash. He was a good cat."

A number of responses come to mind, most some variation on "I'm sorry," but they all stick in Stonetail's throat. She stares at the tabby for a moment more, taking in the slump of the she-cat's shoulders, the dull film that has slid over her eyes. An apology won't do much to lift her spirits, and so Stonetail just bobs her head in agreement before replying, "Get some rest. You all need it."

With that, she leaves. Instead of going to the warriors' den, though, where a dry nest awaits her, she takes a seat beside Streamheart, who has placed herself staunchly in the center of camp. The silver tabby shakes her head when Stonetail opens her mouth to speak, gesturing to the sky with her tail instead. For a moment, the grey she-cat is struck with confusion, but her friend's meaning becomes clear when a break in the clouds and rain reveals a cluster of brilliant lights overhead. StarClan is watching this vigil, and so Stonetail adheres to the traditional silence. Even as other cats join her and Streamheart in stoic mourning, not a word escapes her.

By dawn, Featherstar, Rivershine, and Lakewhisker have all kept their silence, too.


	9. INTERLUDE II

Every time lightning flashes, Coal sees the yellow eyes. He tries to turn his back on the den's opening when it starts, hoping that putting the storm behind him will soothe his frayed nerves. Perhaps if he cannot see the brilliant white strikes, then they will not bother him. After all, the earlier storm brought nothing but a damp nest as soon as he looked away.

But as he squeezes his eyes shut, tail curled tightly around his body, the yellow eyes refuse to leave. No longer delivered by lightning, they arrive with every clap of thunder, jarring him wide awake again and again.

Clay notices his brother's uneasiness. "It's just a storm," he says, head cocked to the side as he looks Coal over. The black tom's ears twitch in Clay's direction before flattening once more.

"I know," Coal grunts. "Just don't like storms. You know that."

"I also know you're the worst liar ever."

"Am not."

"You are."

Coal ignores Clay, snorting softly and making a show of rearranging the moss in his nest to his liking. This fidgeting, aimed to make the brown tabby give up on pestering Coal for answers, only serves to make Clay more curious. He scoots his own nest closer, laying his chin on his snowy white paws and staring intently at his brother. "You have to tell me sooner or later."

One black paw shoots out, gently swatting the ruddy tom over the nose. "No, I don't. Go to sleep."

Clay swats back, perhaps a little too hard. Moss gets into Coal's mouth and nose, eliciting something between a sneeze, a cough, and what might be a bitter insult that a crack of thunder drowns out. "Lay off, Clay," the thin tom finally snaps, adjusting to not only keep the den entrance at his back, but to put his brother there, too.

A cold gust of wind whisks through, ruffling Coal's fur, and he buries his nose under his tail, glancing sideways to see if Clay has given up to shelter himself from the chilly weather. Naturally, he has not; always the brother with the more inquisitive spirit, very little can deter him. Generally, this leads to the accidental stepping on of toes (and feelings) that don't need to be stepped on.

And this rings true the moment Clay asks, "Is this about Mom and Dad?"

Coal bites down a snarl. The big tabby didn't see them die; he did as he was told and ran away without a second thought. But Coal didn't. He remembers watching the oak burst into flames as lightning struck its highest branches. He remembers seeing his mother tackle the cat who attacked his father, latching on like a starved leech, desperate for blood. He remembers hearing her scream for him to run, to keep his brother safe.

And he also remembers the killer's yellow eyes, bright even among flashes of fire and lightning.

"I just don't like storms," he finally insists in no more than a whisper, trying to bury the memories deep below. This time, Clay listens, sensing he's touched a nerve, and simply lies down beside his brother, pressed close. Draping his tail over Coal's back, he gives his dark counterpart a gentle shove.

"I'll let you know when it's over," he offers, this time with a touch more tact than previously.

Coal wants to thank him. He wants to believe his brother's caring nature will be enough to fix the buried fears that weigh him down. He'd _love_ to believe that more than anything. If only it worked that way.

But it doesn't. It never will. No matter how much Clay offers his help, the memory of watching their parents die will not be chased away.

Coal sighs and surrenders; the yellow eyes stay.


	10. VII - CURIOSITY

The rain comes to a halt in the hours before dawn, and when sunrise arrives, it dries much of the moisture clinging to the pelts of the cats that have held vigil for the lost WillowClan cats. Stonetail is particularly glad of her short coat as the air warms; she can feel the damp crawling away much sooner than Featherstar or Rivershine, whose thick pelts sag with the weight of the water they've trapped. Even Streamheart suffers a while longer, soaked through. But there are worse things than wet fur, like losing Clanmates to disaster, and the grey tabby finds it hard to look at the two WillowClan she-cats with their heads bowed. One life lost now and again is a trial all Clans face, but the fire sent five cats into StarClan's ranks, if Frogthroat's harsh ramblings are to be believed. Poolfeather, the medicine cat apprentice, was the first, killed when the blazing camp trapped her inside her den. Eelsplash, second of the dead, lost his footing and drowned in the river trying to help Silvertail to the safer shore; the elder followed shortly, too feeble to finish the crossing alone.

Stonetail thanks StarClan she did not have to witness these ends, but others remain with her, all too clear. Webfeather's shriek still rings in her ears, and though she never saw the apprentice, the mere idea of Toadpaw left behind in the circle of burning pines makes her stomach twist with revulsion. He died alone, most likely. The chances are slim that his mother was able to reach him before the fire reached her.

And that leaves Mistpaw an orphan. As Featherstar softly asks the ShadeClan warriors for a moment of peace, Stonetail itches to slip into the elders' den, to be sure the little apprentice hasn't left the world in pursuit of her family. According to Brightface's tales, it is possible for cats to die of a broken heart.

It is also possible for cats to grow aggressive and wild to protect their broken hearts. Thinking of the WillowClan warriors that line the walls of the elders' den, Stonetail decides to keep her concerns to herself for the time being. There is no need to step on toes or tails to find out if Mistpaw has survived the night; she will either leave the den on her own four paws, or she will be carried out, and that is all there is to it.

"We need to tell them what happened." Streamheart's voice brings Stonetail's focus back from its wanderings.

"Tell who?"

Streamheart flicks her ears at the den they have come to know rather well over the last few days. "Coal and Clay. They need to know who these strange cats are, and why they're here."

"They also need to know that they're moving." Greystar pads up behind her warriors, tail trailing loosely in her wake and shoulders slumped from their usual rigid position. With a hint of a sigh, she says, "Featherstar and her cats will be more comfortable if they have a den to call their own. Please move the loners to the warriors' den before sunhigh, if you will."

For the first time, it is Streamheart who raises protest. "The other warriors don't trust them. I don't think they'll be safe–"

"Move them," Greystar interrupts her. There's a brief return of her imperious posture, but she glances over at Featherstar and Rivershine with their heads bowed, then deflates. "Before sunhigh. That is all I ask. If there is trouble, I will deal with it myself."

When Greystar trudges out of earshot, Stonetail finds a number of phrases resting on her tongue, most made of confusion and the barest trace of fear. The only one that makes it out, though, is the one she least expects, but also the one that requires the least thinking. "Let's go tell them."

»»««

The brothers handle the news very differently. Clay is ecstatic, though he attempts to subdue it for the sake of the somber mood. His tail tip comes to life, twitching about as he sneaks repeated glances across the clearing, where the warriors' den waits. "Maybe we can stay there when WillowClan leaves," he whispers, a purr hard-pressed not to burst from his chest. "I'd like to stay there. As a warrior."

At first, it seems like Coal has brushed off the comment. He doesn't respond with his usual insistence that they move on, and even looks over Stonetail's shoulder to peek at the other den for himself. But his tail curls tighter around his paws, and his ears flatten. If he were not so disciplined in maintaining a cool demeanor, Stonetail is sure the fur along his spine would be standing on end. It's remarkable that he's allowed even small signs to remain visible. And yet maybe he hasn't allowed them so much as forgotten to conceal them.

The grey tabby lets the scent of the den wreath her. Clay's scent is thick, almost overpowering, and speaks of naught but pleasant emotions. Underneath, though, Coal's scent seems to waver and spike, laced with muted streaks of fear that Stonetail is only able to sense in fits and flashes, like minnows in a stream. A kernel of distress finds a home in her chest, and she forces herself to exhale slowly.

"Don't worry about being warriors yet," she says. "Right now, we need to concentrate on making sure WillowClan can go home."

"Which could be a while," Streamheart adds. "Their territory is probably destroyed, and prey won't stray near for a long time. That fire wasn't small…"

"But it rained." Coal, who hasn't spoken after greeting Stonetail and Streamheart when they first arrived, suddenly has words to spare. "It should have been damp, especially if their land is as wet as you make it sound. I don't understand how everything caught fire, even with a break in the rain." He unfolds himself and turns in a circle, claws picking at the moss of his nest, which is looking scattered at best. Finding nowhere to go, though, he returns to his previous seat, coiling into himself once more.

"Maybe the time between storms let the territory dry enough," Clay offers, headbutting his brother's shoulder. "Don't get your tail in a knot."

"If WillowClan gets their paws muddy on a sunny day, something had to help the fire after the rain," Coal insists firmly, flashing his fangs before remembering he is among friends, or at least allies.

Streamheart and Stonetail trade a glance, brows furrowed. Both she-cats know something is out of place with the dark-furred tom, but to put a paw on what troubles him seems impossible. Impassive shell traded for prickly armor, Coal will not let anyone in. Even Clay appears cautious about continuing the conversation, and shortly he changes the topic at hand.

"Why is WillowClan staying here? Why not in BreezeClan?" he asks, swiveling his ears away from Coal as if to give his brother privacy. Coal's restlessness defeats the purpose, though.

"Why is Greystar _allowing_ WillowClan to stay here?" he corrects the brown tabby. "Giving us a chance is different than sheltering a whole Clan."

"Some of the cats went to BreezeClan instead to even out the numbers, so it's not actually the whole Clan," Streamheart explains, but she gets no further.

"Greystar doesn't strike me as the kind of cat to take pity on her rivals, especially if she doesn't have to get involved, but now she's offering them shelter indefinitely? After their territory goes up in smoke when it should only smolder for a while and go out? I'm not sure why this is so hard for you to grasp, but something is _wrong_!" Now the fur along his spine really is standing on end, and Clay whimpers, trying to tug his tail away; it's trapped under Coal's claws.

"Coal, please," he begs, prying his tail free and tucking it beneath his belly. "There's nothing we can do about it now…"

"Your brother is right," Streamheart says, rising to her feet. "The fire is already over with. The best we can do now is make sure WillowClan survives long enough to go home, and you two are going to help with that by bundling up your moss and moving it to the warriors' den. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Coal's bravado vanishes, replaced with the curled-tail, hollow stare he wore when Stonetail and Streamheart first arrived. Without further argument, he claws together the scraps of his nest and tucks the resulting wad of moss below his chin, looking expectantly to the ShadeClan she-cats. Stonetail's skin crawls at this; his stare is too even, too empty.

Too calculated.

It occurs to her that the black tom might run. The warriors' den is mere tail-lengths from the path to the dirtplace, and any cat with a wiry frame like Coal's could slip through the bracken safety barrier and be free before the well-fed forms of ShadeClan could hope to follow. Coal could become a ghost without breaking a sweat.

But seeing Clay gently bump against his brother convinces Stonetail to set her worries aside. Coal will not run. The skinny loner is Clay's guardian. They are nearly joined at the hip, the way Clay tells it, though it's more like Coal is Clay's ever-watchful shadow. One cannot exist without the other; it is impossible to picture otherwise.

However, she can't shake the idea that Coal is planning something. The abrupt shifts in his demeanor have startled Clay, who ought to know his brother's moods better than anyone else. If he had witnessed the fire, perhaps his behavior could be put down to shock, but Stonetail has seen such an emotion in the face of every WillowClan cat that has entered ShadeClan's camp, and Coal is most certainly not in shock.

Despite Stonetail's reservations about this new side to the loner, he does not cause a scene as they cross to the warriors' den, instead allowing his brother to enter first and choose a prime corner for his nest. Then, once Clay has kicked moss about to his liking, Coal makes a plain nest of his own and lies down in it. "Just let me sleep," he mumbles. Behind him, Clay nods vigorously in agreement.

"Rest will do you good." Streamheart pauses, eyeing her own nest in the corner opposite the loners'. A couple prize swan feathers, gathered from the riverbank, line it, downy soft and pristine white. The silver tabby gently pushes one of the feathers back into place before also settling down. "Rest will do us all good."

And after the long night she has had, Stonetail hardly remembers lying down, let alone falling asleep. Thankfully it is a dreamless sleep, brought on first and foremost by exhaustion as her body catches up with the tiring events she has taken part in. It feels as if it could last forever, as if she could pass to StarClan in its arms before she wakes, but the best of rests often do.

As such, the transition from sound asleep to half-conscious is a slow one, but the voice hissing in her ear will not relent. "Get up, Stonetail. Come on, please get up."

Stonetail rolls onto her side, paws outstretched and toes splayed as she uncoils. Blinking slowly, she discovers Clay hopping from side to side, tail standing straight in the air. "Greystar and Featherstar are going to patrol WillowClan's territory to check for survivors," he hisses, putting his muzzle close to the grey warrior's. "We should go, too!"

"No, we shouldn't." Stonetail is upright now, and her eyes rove over the den to check for eavesdroppers. Coal and Streamheart's flanks rise and fall steadily as they sleep, and Pineheart snores softly from the center nest. Peering over Clay's shoulder to find that no one is crouched outside, ears pricked with interest, she continues. "That isn't our territory, and we weren't asked to go with. Only a mousebrain would try to horn his way into this. Go back to sleep."

Clay presses one foot on the edge of Stonetail's moss, pulling the strands apart. "I need to go see it. Please, Stonetail. I just want you to come with for a little while. It'll be quick!" At the rise in Clay's voice, Pineheart stirs. Stonetail stiffens at the movement, but when the senior warrior's paws churn in the middle of a dream, the tabby exhales softly. The ginger she-cat is still too wrapped up in sleep to overhear Clay's ideas, which could easily be taken as misbehavior or worse coming from the loner rather than a Clan cat.

"We're not going," she insists, reaching to pull some of her scattered bedding closer. "It isn't right to force our way onto a patrol, especially not a leaders' patrol."

"Stonetail, it isn't like that," Clay pushes. "I just want to follow them for a little while." He pauses as if on the edge of some great secret, fangs worrying away at his lip. Then he confesses: "And Coal wants to know, too. I promised I'd try."

Stonetail can't decide what's worse: that Clay actually wants to follow the leaders without invitation to do so, or that Coal is behind the idea. Either way, it's asking for trouble, but the brown tabby doesn't seem to mind the risks at all. "We can say we're going hunting if anyone asks, and when we get far enough from camp, we can follow Greystar and Featherstar. As long as we're careful, they won't know we're there, and we can hurry back to really hunt before coming home. It's so easy, and nobody will know. Please?"

"No." Stonetail jumps as Streamheart pads up next to her. The silver tabby flicks her tail at Clay's nest and growls, "You stay put, and we'll go."

"But–" Clay and Stonetail say in unison. A solid look from Streamheart cuts them both off, though, and Clay slinks back to his nest, tail drooping with shame.

"I thought you were sleeping," Stonetail hisses, following her friend out of the den when it's apparent that Clay will obey orders, if reluctantly. Careful not to raise her voice, she demands to know what in StarClan has possessed Streamheart to volunteer for something so phenomenally mousebrained. "If they catch us, they'll have our tails for it. And what's the point? This isn't some sight-seeing trip."

But Streamheart refuses to reply, and at the camp entrance, Grasspelt snaps out of his daze to greet them. "Good luck hunting," he says, dipping his head to hide a yawn. "Hopefully the fire didn't scare off too much in our territory, otherwise it's going to be a real chore feeding _them_." He glances back at the den Clay and Coal shared earlier that morning; WillowClan cats have claimed it as their own now.

"We know," Streamheart tells him, going along with his assumption that the intent is to catch a mouse or two. "That's why we're heading out. Should be back before sunset." With that, she breaks into a run, following a curling trail that leads around the camp and towards the BreezeClan border. The path is tamped down by the footprints of many generations, but the rain has muddied it. Stonetail almost slips as she lopes after the silver tabby, recovering her footing by tramping through the sodden grass instead. Why Streamheart is taking this trail, she has no idea, and her legs pump furiously as she attempts to catch up.

"What are you doing?" she demands, drawing level with the other warrior. "First you tell them that there's nothing we can do, then you tell Clay we'll go stalk two _leaders_ just to make him feel better, and now we're heading towards BreezeClan? Streamheart!"

"Keep your voice down," Streamheart huffs, skidding into a turn that takes them off the trail and into a thicket of holly. Squeezing through is a process that results in some fur being stripped from their bodies, but on the other side, the silver tabby finally stops to face her grey counterpart.

"We're going to WillowClan after Greystar and Featherstar, but we had to leave some scent in another direction so it looks like we're going hunting. Better safe than sorry." She grunts, pushing through another holly bush; the budding white flowers break off the bush and tumble from her back. "Now rub yourself in some of those," she adds over her shoulder. "You don't want to smell like yourself walking all over WillowClan, and you can wash it off later."

"Why are we doing this?" Stonetail rolls through the fallen flowers before following Streamheart through the holly. "It's done and over with. You said that yourself!"

Streamheart turns sharply and snorts in exasperation. "Did you even think about what Coal said? Look around. Our forest is still dripping, so how exactly did _WillowClan_ catch fire like that? We can't do anything to fix what happened, but I want to understand it. And that means crossing the river to see for ourselves." There's a steeliness to her that strikes Stonetail as familiar, and she suddenly remembers the earliest moons of their apprenticeship, when the silver tabby first began to draw the leader's daughter out of her shell and into trouble. The look she wears now mirrors the one she wore the night two apprentices were caught trying to stalk a fox to protect the Clan and earn their chance at fame. The result had been two very tired she-cats being dragged home empty-pawed, more infamous than glorious. Ever since then, any escapade that began with Streamheart's insistence ended in either failure or a victory they could never share the spoils of without admitting to disobeying their mentors and the code.

Hopefully, this one will be one of their quiet triumphs.

"Fine," the grey tabby mutters, brushing against the holly plants one more time for good measure. "Fine, we'll do this. But," she threatens, "if we get caught, this is on you. Not that Greystar will care."

"Don't worry about that. Just stay low."

»»««

Crossing the river proves to be difficult. After following Greystar and Featherstar's trail, it seems to vanish at the water's edge, probably washed away. This is good news for the warriors; their own holly-masked scents will be gone when the leaders return. However, it makes finding the crossing point arduous. After wandering down the river's length, Streamheart spies a set of stepping stones, slick and wet, and the she-cats make their way to the opposite shore without any mishaps. Finding the scents they had been following becomes their next task.

Stonetail, perhaps so instinctively in tune with her mother's scent, finds the trail first. It is relatively fresh, but not overwhelming; Greystar and Featherstar did not spend long by the burnt reeds, instead proceeding further into the ravaged marshlands.

Underfoot, the ash clumps and sticks, clinging to Stonetail's paws. She itches to plunge her paws into the first creek they pass, but it runs thick with soot floating atop the water, and will only be dirtier to wash in than waiting to reach the river again. Wrinkling her nose at the polluted creek, the grey tabby turns away and scents the air again. It reeks of scorched marsh grasses and sedge, most half burnt by the flames, the remainder killed by the heat. A metallic tang hovers in the air as well, and underneath is a smoky, wispy scent neither Streamheart nor Stonetail can identify.

Most curious, though, are the scattered, charred branches and reed stalks littering the ground. They tend to lay whole tree lengths from one another, shriveled into ash at one end and scorched black but whole at the other, as if only partially consumed by flame. When Streamheart turns one over with her paw, it crumbles into the dirt.

"I don't like it," she says, sniffing it before recoiling. "There's too many of these and they're all half burned up. I…don't like it." Sharing a nod, they continue after the scent of the leaders, which grows harder and harder to distinguish from the overpowering smell of something that continues to smolder. That something proves to be a massive willow, split in two by lightning. Each half smokes gently, small fires still fizzling in the shelter of the willow's scorched branches. The stump, however, is done burning, and sits jagged and black between the willow's halves.

As Stonetail approaches the stump, though, dread spikes through her. Greystar and Featherstar sit on its other side, deep in conversation and thankfully upwind. As quietly as she can, Stonetail snakes away from the willow's base and to Streamheart, who has the posture of a cat about to call out.

"They're here," the grey tabby hisses, pressing against her friend to turn her back. "Get under the branches and hide before they see us!" Together they dive below the cluster of willow branches, stomping out any feeble sparks with their paws as they wriggle deeper into their makeshift shelter. Streamheart, who is broader in the shoulders, gets stuck once or twice, but a solid shove from Stonetail is enough to move her along. Eventually, and perhaps more out of curiosity than concern for stealth, the two warriors come to a crouched halt mere fox-lengths from the open space where the ShadeClan and WillowClan leaders sit in terse discussion.

"–want to protect my Clan," growls Greystar, "but I never thought I'd end up trying to protect you as well."

Featherstar laughs; without seeing her posture, Stonetail can only guess at whether it's genuine or not. "I don't need your protection. My Clan needs shelter and a few meals, but not protection."

"The last time you didn't need my protection, a warrior almost skinned you alive at a Gathering. You were the greenest apprentice I've ever seen."

"And you were a pretty green warrior yourself. Besides, Flowerstar would have stepped in if it were that bad. That warrior was one of yours."

Now Greystar laughs, and it's most certainly a bitter one; she has no other laugh. "Flowerstar was the least concerned mother you could ask for. She wouldn't step in for me or for you. Two litters, two fathers, two Clans, and I don't think she stepped in once. She had that reputation to uphold, remember?"

"And look at us. We turned out all right, didn't we?"

"Save for your prey-stealing. You're lucky she caught you at the border and covered it up. I told her not to let you off the hook, though."

Stonetail does not hear the reply to this. Instead she looks back to Streamheart, whose blue eyes look like the size of the moon in the gloom. Greystar and Featherstar are _sisters_ , albeit half-sisters, separated by a number of moons and an entire Clan. Two daughters of Flowerstar, both with nine lives of their own.

"Did you know?" Streamheart asks as softly as she can. Stonetail shakes her head, and faintly realizes she can't seem to feel her paws. A glance down reveals she's stepped on a slightly stronger ember, and biting down a hiss, she stamps it out. Still, a peculiar numbness pervades her body, and she can't tear herself away from the leaders' conversation when she finally returns to it. Their secret hangs heavy in the air, muffling any outside noise.

"Are you really going to kill him?" Featherstar asks, clearly onto some new topic.

"I don't see another option," Greystar replies coldly. There's a scraping noise that becomes evident as claws ripping at bark. "I'll wait until he makes a mistake and exposes himself. Then I'll make a point of tearing up his face before I tear up his throat. Sounds fair."

Stonetail can't listen any longer. Backing away from the limbs that conceal her so well from view, she noses Streamheart onto her feet towards the side of the willow they came from. Wordlessly, they squeeze out and run away, rushing through the charred reeds until they find the roaring river once more. Their crossing is quick, and breathlessly they race downstream, where the river branches into more manageable streams that they can wash away the ash on their paws. Only once they are clean do they finally speak.

"Who was she talking about?" Streamheart's fur is puffed out; she looks nearly twice her size, and paces nervously while Stonetail washes a stubborn clump of soot from her side.

"I don't know," the grey warrior says, fighting the quaver in her voice. "But it sounds like it's someone in the Clan. Ours or WillowClan, I don't know."

"What about all that about tearing up his face? Why do that?"

But maybe this Stonetail does know the answer to. She recalls a thin double line that graces Greystar's cheek. It is mostly grown over by fur, but in heavy wind, it can be glimpsed by a sharp eye, pale pink and small. "She has a scar on her face from a long time ago. I don't know who did it, but maybe she wants to return the favor?" The idea makes Stonetail sick. She knows Greystar is a harsh, fierce cat, but a cruel one? No, just concerned with doling out justice.

"We need to go hunt," she says, putting the subject behind her even as her gut screams for her to pursue it. "We need to be back before they are, and we need to have something to eat. Grasspelt thinks we're hunting."

Streamheart is all too happy to drop the subject. Giving her chest fur a few nervous licks, she sets off towards the BreezeClan border, giving the ruined Gathering Place a wide berth. Here hills begin to form, low and rolling. The trek is an exposed one, but good enough hunting; rabbits run wild in this corner of ShadeClan's territory, a hearty meal for any cat that can catch one. But it's hard to put energy into the chase; both she-cats are still too preoccupied with what they overheard to focus on the hunt. Stonetail even goes so far as to wrench her shoulder by stepping into the opening of a rabbit warren she had not seen, and at that point, the two warriors opt to return to camp with the excuse that the fire has sent prey into hiding. Carefully, they plod home along the trail they initially chose when leaving camp, Stonetail finding the walk particularly excruciating with her twisted shoulder, and the relief they feel upon seeing Stormfoot on guard is all too sweet.

"It's safe here," Streamheart whispers, mostly to herself. She checks furtively over her shoulder as if expecting Greystar at any moment, but when she looks through the camp entrance, she stops in her tracks. Stonetail stumbles into her from behind, pain lancing through her shoulder, but can't find the words to scold the silver tabby for stopping without warning. Her heart leaps into her throat, blocking the instinct to shout for help.

In the middle of camp, Mistpaw lies all alone.


	11. VIII - CONVERSATION

Thrushpaw intercepts them. Though both Stonetail and Streamheart begin to approach Mistpaw's prone form, the medicine cat apprentice plants herself firmly in their way. "Leave her be," she commands. "She's been there for a while now."

"But she looks–"

"It's how she's grieving," says the small tabby, not budging as Stonetail peers around her. Her eyes are flinty, all hazel and hard with a frostiness that Stonetail has never seen before. The grey warrior glances once more past Thrushpaw at the WillowClan apprentice (thank StarClan, she catches the faint rise and fall of Mistpaw's chest), but averts her eyes quickly, looking anywhere but at the apprentices before her. Streamheart is similarly evasive in regards to Mistpaw, although she dips her head to Thrushpaw before murmuring something about getting something to eat. Then she is gone, off choosing from the fresh-kill pile while ex-mentor faces ex-apprentice.

Stonetail feels like she could tear the tension apart with her claws. It's hard to look at Thrushpaw with Mistpaw lying in the background, and it grows harder still when the pale warrior realizes she has been hovering over Mistpaw from a safe distance since WillowClan's arrival. Her concern for the orphaned she-cat is just as palpable as the strain between herself and Thrushpaw.

And Thrushpaw knows it.

"Quit holding your paw up and go see Robinfoot," she says, giving Stonetail's shoulder a brief scan. "It won't heal itself if you keep it tucked like that." Without any hint of malice save for the level tone she holds, Thrushpaw pads around the grey tabby and to the camp entrance, where she nods at Stormfoot and gives some explanation for leaving that concerns marigolds. Stonetail forces herself not to watch the medicine cat apprentice vanish into the pines, and instead swings her focus to the medicine den. Suddenly deflated, the walk to the other end of camp seems like it's tree-lengths and tree-lengths long, while her nest is so very close. The temptation to visit Robinfoot later in the evening is overwhelming, a feeling only strengthened by the desire to lie in dry moss and worry with Streamheart over Greystar's private vendetta against the nameless cat. But Robinfoot needs rest like any other cat, and the possibility of waking him too late (and by extension, waking Thrushpaw) is far from appealing. Besides, Thrushpaw is absent, if only for the time being, and another conversation is temporarily avoidable. Good shoulder sagging, Stonetail limps to the bracken-covered den with her tail leaving a faint line in the dirt.

"Robinfoot?" she calls, trudging in. "I think I twisted my shoulder."

A pair of amber eyes blinks open in the corner at the sound of her voice, but they do not belong to the medicine cat. Coal lies in a small nest, chin on his paws and body curled in tight; Stonetail is beginning to think she will never see him in any other position, he is so often postured like this.

"What are you doing here?"

He pushes a paw forward gingerly. "Tore two claws," he grunts, withdrawing as soon as Stonetail gets a good look. Blood is crusted across his toes, and there is a fresh stain on the moss. Cobwebs are nowhere to be seen.

"Robinfoot went for supplies," Coal explains automatically, shutting his eyes and exhaling. "Used them up on WillowClan."

"Won't be gone long, then." Favoring her injury, Stonetail awkwardly settles down at a safe distance from the loner, wincing when she jostles her foreleg against a heavy stone stained with the paste of berries past. Pinching her tongue between her teeth, she lets a sharp hiss escape her.

"You all right?"

"Fine," she mutters, rolling onto her uninjured side and stretching her neck to rest her cheek against the remains of a pine stump. From this vantage point, she can see the den's entrance, and resolves to leave immediately if Thrushpaw returns before Robinfoot. She'll seek treatment overnight if that is the case. Waiting on edge, though, is hardly comfortable, and she soon drops her head to the ground, engaging in a glum staring contest with a spider scuttling its way across the den floor. It totters along with haste, eight legs rhythmically propelling it straight towards Coal's paw. He glances at it before sweeping it aside; the spider vanishes among a pile of moss, and the black tom snorts as fresh blood oozes from his injuries.

"How did you do that?" Stonetail asks, pressing her back feet against the wall to stretch.

Too quickly Coal says, "Snagged on a root," and then he shifts to put his back to Stonetail, only the second cat to do so since her return. She grits her teeth and attempts to do the same, but gasps aloud as fire bursts through her shoulder. Clearly, isolating herself further was not the right decision, and through a brief bout of double vision, she spots a set of white paws trotting her way from the den's entrance.

"Just rolled funny," she says in dismissal, jaw clenched, as Robinfoot immediately discards his pawful of cobwebs to fuss over her. He has always been thorough, as is fitting for a medicine cat, and insists on gently prodding her upright before pressing his paws to various regions of her shoulder.

"You've dislocated it," he informs her. "And this will hurt." Stonetail expects another flash of fire to burn through her shoulder, but instead, Robinfoot turns aside to kick the cobwebs in Coal's directions with curt instructions to wrap his paw up well with the last of the crushed marigold. Without warning, the tabby medicine cat whirls back, places his paws on Stonetail's shoulder, and twists. She yowls, biting it back as her senses snap into place along with her shoulder blade, and squeezes her eyes shut.

"You should rest that until tomorrow evening," Robinfoot says, all tender and concerned once more. As the grey warrior composes herself, he presses against her shoulder to be sure it is properly in place, finally allowing her to stand once satisfied with his efforts.

"A little warning next time?" She winces, testing her weight; it hurts less to place both paws on the ground, though she is rather sore. "I wasn't ready."

Robinfoot flicks her side with his tail. "If I warned you, it would have been worse, believe me. Now go on. I've got him to patch up." Ears flattening against his head, he growls to himself, "Should let him do it himself for scratching at my alder tree. Only StarClan forsaken alder in this StarClan forsaken forest…"

Stonetail hesitates in the den entrance, neck craned to spot Coal's paw hanging over the boundaries of his mossy nest, swathed in white and gold as Robinfoot swoops in to finish the marigold-and-cobweb wrappings. Before she can be caught, though, she limps to the warriors' den (eyes carefully averted from Mistpaw, still in the camp's center), grateful to find Streamheart and Grasspelt are the only warriors inside. The tom is rather hard of hearing despite his young age, and any conversation Stonetail might have with her friend will remain private as long as they keep their voices low.

"Are you awake?" she whispers, easing herself down next to the silver tabby. Streamheart does not stir, though, and the steady rise and fall of her side makes it glaringly obvious that she's already asleep. Stonetail's stomach turns; when will they have an opportunity to talk about Greystar and Featherstar again? Now is the perfect time with the den so empty, but she hasn't the heart to wake the other warrior. Streamheart's best defense has always been to sleep her troubles away, and the grey tabby sighs, wishing she could do the same but fully aware that she'll only wake up more concerned than she was before.

"Talk to you later," she mutters, settling into her bedding to rest.

But she doesn't.

A disturbance comes in the form of Clay, tail hanging between his legs and whiskers drooping. "You're back!" he croaks upon wandering into the den. Blowing out a great gust of air, he shuffles over and nudges Stonetail to her feet, apologizing profusely when she headbutts him away from her shoulder.

"Tell me what happened," he begs. "We can go hunting, or pretend to if that's better. I want to know, and I've got to tell Coal." Forgetting himself, he gives the grey warrior another bump, and she bares her fangs in a violent hiss, from which he recoils with ears pressed flat. Apologies stream from his mouth one after the other, and when he finally clamps his jaws shut, Stonetail sighs.

"I twisted my shoulder," she explains," and Robinfoot says I have to rest it. No hunting, fake or not, until moonrise tomorrow."

"What about a walk?" he insists. This time he keeps a safe distance. "That's not especially hard."

"I don't want to risk it." And yet Clay's round, sincere face continues to beg and beg some more, until finally Stonetail rolls her eyes and heaves herself out of her nest. She agrees to the short walk, but makes it clear she intends to return to her nest immediately afterward to sleep until StarClan falls down.

"And if anything else happens to my shoulder, I'll have your tail for bedding," she mutters. Clay doesn't seem to hear, though, too busy offering his thanks repeatedly, as is his nature, and then he lopes out of the den at a steady pace; Stonetail finds herself unable to match it, stride impaired by a dull, pulsing ache. Gritting her teeth, she blocks out the pain and limps along at a slightly more hurried pace, nowhere close to catching up but refusing to be left in the dust. Thankfully Clay's obliviousness only goes so far, and soon he doubles back to fall into step beside her, this time much more slowly.

"I don't want to hear another apology out of you," she grunts when he opens his mouth; he quickly shuts it, and they pad through the hollow log at the camp entrance in silence. The quiet pervades for a few more precious moments, blissful and sweet, but the moment the camp is beyond their line of sight, Clay bursts with excitement.

"Tell me everything," he breathes, seating himself on a gnarled root belonging to a rare maple, generations older than ShadeClan itself. "What did you see? Was it still wet? Wait, was it _dry_? I hope it wasn't dry. Then something would be wrong. Territories can't be that dry that fast."

Stonetail gingerly eases herself onto her haunches, using the maple's trunk as support. "Wet or dry, something is wrong." It's tempting to admit that not all is well in ShadeClan, too, but impulse prevents the pale warrior from revealing her mother's secret. Instead, she lowers her voice and details the scorched earth, the charred reeds, and the clinging dampness of WillowClan's decimated lands. The clamminess of the soil seems to collect on her paws as she speaks, and too vividly she remembers the hot, acrid stench of the smoldering willow tree. A moment's thought reminds her that the willow was the only segment of the territory she and Streamheart explored that was mostly dry. The blaze could have dried it out, but that didn't explain why the rest of the territory was so saturated after burning.

"A lot of things don't make sense over there," she says. She half means the improbable wetness, but Greystar and Featherstar's clandestine conversation intrudes again. Still, Clay does not need to be privy to such sensitive, inexplicable information. He appears as if he's fit to sing like a jay, bated breath collected in his puffed out chest. Finally he exhales, mumbling a short curse of awe and disbelief under his breath.

"I wish I could see it."

"No, you don't," Stonetail corrects him, stiffly rising. The fur along her spine prickles uncomfortably, and she glances into the forest, searching for movement among the pines. A flash of stormy grey zips through the trees, sunshine alive on its belly; a robin, then. Closer to the ground, though, she sees nothing but the dappled shadows expected with the slowly falling sun.

Except one shadow moves.

A snarl forms in the back of her throat, but the shade comes around a tree and shakes silver tabby fur free of pine needles. "You need to come home," Streamheart says, not bothering to question why they are away in the first place.

"But Stonetail was just telling me what you saw," Clay protests, hopping down from the maple root anyway. He scuffs the dirt with white forepaws, giving the silver warrior his best pleading look, a technique any kit would benefit from learning. Streamheart's gaze is focused on Stonetail, however, brimming with urgency, and the grey tabby dips her head.

"I'll catch up," she says, adding to Clay, "And don't say _a word_ , you hear me?" But he is already sprinting back into the pines with all the energy of a squirrel and much less grace. Streamheart hesitates a moment, but shakes her head and follows, calling an apology over her shoulder.

Stonetail does her best to return quickly, but winces at the thought of having to visit Robinfoot again for disobeying him almost immediately after being told to rest. She wrinkles her nose; there was once a day when she would have listened, but lately, defiance races white-hot beneath her skin. Brief thought leads her to blame the loners and the disorder they've brought into her life, but a moment more and her mind wanders to Greystar yet again. Greystar, who traded her apprentice away, who saddled two loners on her back, who keeps secrets with the leader of another Clan. Greystar, who she has, remarkably, not spoken with in what feels like an eternity. All the force and frustration that filled their past conversations has had nowhere to go, and now it leaks out like a poorly-patched wound fresh from the battlefield. She bleeds insolence instead of pooling it all behind a wavering barrier that's bound to shatter the moment her mother applies any force at all.

It feels good.

Squeezing into the fallen log leading into camp, she pushes the faint thrill of independence behind her heavy heart, which her twisting innards drag down deeper into her chest. Streamheart was all too short with her announcement to be considered the bearer of good news; anxiety strums cold claws across Stonetail's heartstrings.

The mossy overhang falls aside as Stonetail passes through, and those claws miss a beat as the camp's central fixture is missing. Mistpaw's little grey form has been moved from the flat, damp grass, and the grey warrior parts her jaws, seeking out the scent of death. Did the apprentice pine away?

No, she has not. There is no scent that would summon crows from the sky, and looking into the corners of camp, discovers that Mistpaw has likely moved herself. The WillowClan apprentice is snoozing beside Coal, who lies on his side with his cobweb-swathed forepaw stretched out.

"He got her to talk," Clay whispers, bounding over with Streamheart close behind.

"He sat down next to her and asked what she saw. That's all he did," the silver tabby adds. When she glances back at the odd pair, she catches Coal's eye; at this, he eases himself upright, careful not to disturb the sleeping form next to him. Favoring his injured paw, lurching in a rather undignified way as he makes his way over, he joins the small group at the camp's entrance.

His penchant for short and sweet has not left him. "She saw lightning strike a willow, hid in a shallow creek, and when she went back to camp to warn everyone, it was already on fire," he says, shoulders rigid. Unruly tufts of fur stick up along his neck and back, pine needles clinging to his short pelt along the side. Seeing him unkempt this way twice in one afternoon sparks uneasiness in Stonetail, but given his irritability earlier, she opts not to press that issue just yet.

"What else did she tell you?" she starts to ask, but he cuts across her to give Clay a gentle shove with his forehead, steering him towards the exit. The brown tabby pushes his heels into the dirt, but gives way with the second shove, taking a couple tentative steps into the hollow log.

"Coal, what are you doing?" he whines, looking back at Streamheart and Stonetail. Instead of the round, pleading look he so often uses to beg for information, his ears are flattened to the curve of his skull, and his eyes flicker to his brother unsteadily. Coal is unaffected, though, and flicks his tail as if in a hurry.

"It's time for us to go," he says. A bite colors his voice, but for once, it is not directed at anyone around himself. The black tom huffs and fixes his line of sight on the forest past Clay as if something more interesting lies out there.

Then his eyes widen, and he backpedals, nosing Clay back into the camp first. Amber eyes wide like moons, he limps aside to allow two cats passage. Thrushpaw comes first, a tuft of marigold clenched tightly in her jaws. Her brow is furrowed with strain, and leaning heavily on her tiny form is Lakewhisker. His entire frame sags as if StarClan presses down upon it, and each pawstep trembles violently. Streamheart surges forward to prop him up on the other side, relieving the pressure from Thrushpaw, who stumbles with the change in the distribution of weight.

"Get Robinfoot!" Streamheart cries, lifting her father's chin with her muzzle only for his head to loll forward again. Clay springs into motion, scampering towards the medicine den while shouting for its senior resident, and Coal and Stonetail hurriedly make way for the unsteady three as they struggle across the uneven ground. Meanwhile, cats poke their heads out of dens and look up from sharing tongues, alarm beginning to taint the scent of ShadeClan with a sour smell.

When Robinfoot finally sprints out of the den, Stonetail lets out a shuddering breath. "You're not going anywhere," she murmurs, casting a sideways look at Coal. He nods, transfixed by the way Lakewhisker shivers, shakes, collapses in a heap with his jaws parted.

"I'm getting out of the way," he replies faintly. And then he hobbles off to the warriors' den, slipping past the spectators in the entrance as unobtrusively as possible, no more than a quavering shadow.

Stonetail ignores him after that and races toward the medicine den as quickly as her tender shoulder allows. As she goes, she mutters a short prayer.

"StarClan, don't take him."


	12. IX - ILLNESS

Lakewhisker enters a seizure. He writhes on the floor of the medicine den, paws bursting through neat piles of herbs and spraying them into the shadowy corners. Eyes rolled back in his head, he looks more wraith than warrior, and Stonetail freezes along the wall, breath caught in her chest. Streamheart does the same, leaping back from her father's thrashing with a cry of horror. This leaves Robinfoot and Thrushpaw to surge forward, dodging flailing limbs in an effort to pin the grey tom down until the seizure passes. The medicine cat is able to hold Lakewhisker's hind legs in place, but his apprentice is at a disadvantage with her small size and can only trap one forepaw against the ground. The other still twitches and shakes, claws sheathing and unsheathing at random; they have already scored Robinfoot's side in the commotion.

Coming to their senses, Streamheart and Stonetail jointly place their paws atop Lakewhisker's last free leg, and even though the silver tabby can be heard keening softly, ears flat to her skull, she remains in place until her father finally stills. There is a moment of unspeakable terror following this; the senior warrior appears to fall motionless entirely. But then he gives a great shuddering breath and moans, a rough, grating noise like rocks scraping against the skulls of rabbits left out to dry in the sun.

"Oh, thank StarClan," Streamheart chokes out, pressing her nose to Lakewhisker's shoulder. Robinfoot pushes between them, though, flicking his tail to push the she-cats back.

"We don't know what caused this, so don't get too close. If it's contagious, you two don't need to catch it," he says. "And I'm sorry you had to see that."

Streamheart's hackles rise and she thrusts her muzzle close to Robinfoot's, growling, "He's my father! I want to help."

"He's my patient," Robinfoot retorts, holding his ground, "and I don't want you to help because I don't want you rolling on the ground like he did. I understand your concern, but for now, you're better off anywhere but here."

She has to understand. After all, she's no fool. But all the same, Streamheart snarls and whips around, racing out of the medicine den and towards her nest. "You, too," Robinfoot says, giving Stonetail a pointed look. Hesitating in the entrance, the grey warrior looks over Lakewhisker one more time before turning away and following her friend into seclusion.

Inside the den, Streamheart is curled into her nest, glowering darkly at the woven bracken walls. Her tail sweeps back and forth, scattering moss fragments with abandon. "I want to help him," she mutters sourly when Stonetail sits in the nest slightly to her right.

"So do I," she says in reply, kneading her bedding anxiously. "I… He's done everything for us."

"Why can't we do that for him?"

"Because Robinfoot is being careful, and we're being…family."

Streamheart grunts, but rather than enter into further debate, she brings her tail around to rest tersely atop her paws. With her eyes squeezed shut, she does not see Stonetail shift nests to lie beside her. She also does not seem to mind, and exhales unevenly as her friend presses her back against silver tabby stripes. They remain like this, grim silence cloaking them comfortably. It is so much easier not to speak, not to share. Solidarity provides more comfort than the spoken word.

They lie this way without interruption for what feels like moons; it has probably been no more than minutes, Stonetail's reason tells her. But every silence comes to an end, and Clay brings that end. Stonetail expects him to run his mouth immediately, flooding them with asinine questions until the end of time. And while he does enter with a question, it is the last one Stonetail expects: "Is it okay if I sit with you?"

She and Streamheart stare at the tabby for a moment, equally surprised, but eventually Streamheart dips her head in consent. Clay purrs halfheartedly, taking a seat on the bare floor of the den, casting aside the comfort of a nest so he can press his nose to each of the she-cat's foreheads. "I'm sorry about your dad," he says, "but if you guys are anything like him, I think he'll be all right."

Stonetail doesn't have the heart to tell Clay that Lakewhisker is not her father, but not because she doesn't want the tom to be wrong. Rather, she does not want to entertain the thought that the old warrior is not of her blood when all her life, he has looked after her as if she were anyways. To admit that aloud would be nothing short of betrayal. But still, to whom? To herself, or to Lakewhisker? But it does not matter. She rolls slightly, taking the weight off her hip to settle into a more comfortable position without breaking contact with Streamheart, who lifts her head to see what the motion is about before looking away again.

Remarkably, Clay respects the silence longer than anticipated. He is not without predictability, though, and finally caves in to the desire to fill the emptiness. It was bound to happen sooner rather than later, Stonetail reasons, and without the energy to be annoyed, she doesn't stop him from asking, "Will you tell me about him?"

Tell Clay what? There is so much to tell, much of it trivial and unremembered, but some of it personal and cherished. Striking a balance between the vague and the intimate proves difficult for Stonetail, but to her surprise, Streamheart throws her privacy to the wind.

"He declined the deputy position to look after my mother while she died," the silver tabby says. "Robinfoot didn't know what she had, but it gave her a lump on her throat that made it hard to eat and breathe. She couldn't hunt or fight, but Lakewhisker did that for her. He was in the medicine den every day, and when he wasn't in there, he was making sure I was okay nursing from Littlefeather. I was so young..."

Stonetail remembers Littlefeather. She had been a golden tabby queen with dainty white paws and amber eyes that glowed with love for every kit she ever nursed. It was Littlefeather that had nursed Streamheart, happy to provide for any kit after so recently losing both of her own. Stonetail had arrived little more than a moon later, left by Greystar, who had other duties to attend to after giving birth to her lone daughter, and the two she-cats had instantly become her surrogate daughters.

"He taught us to hunt when he didn't have to," Stonetail finds herself chiming in, pulling away from the fleeting memory of Littlefeather's glowing eyes during their apprentice ceremony; she had died two moons later of greencough. "He didn't have an apprentice, but he took us out to hunt whenever we asked him to, even if he'd been on patrol all day. I don't think he ever seemed tired. At least, he pretended not to be. For us."

"We got to be better hunters than the older apprentices, and they didn't know what happened." Streamheart lets out a cracked purr. "They thought Stonetail was getting help from Greystar and then teaching me."

"Which is the last place I ever got help."

"The very last place," Streamheart agrees, flicking her ear. Across from the she-cats, Clay sprawls out, legs stretched to their full length behind him and tail swishing gently back and forth. He glances over his shoulder, hearing something that the ShadeClan warriors do not, and curling his tail over his back, he invites Coal inside.

"They're telling me about Lakewhisker," he explains. "He's a great cat. And a great dad."

There is a hitch in Coal's step; he hesitates to take a seat, but after a wary look around the den, he does so, settling into some moss scraps in the corner and maintaining a respectful distance.

"You're treating it like you're mourning already," he observes softly, ears hanging low. "You still have him."

"That doesn't mean they can't talk about all the good things he's done," Clay replies defensively. Looking back at Streamheart and Stonetail, he adds, "Sorry. Our dad is…gone. It's been a long time." Behind him, Coal fidgets, resorting to cleaning his face to keep in motion. The black tom says nothing to overrule his brother, but certainly refrains from leaping into the conversation with zeal. He is impassive again.

For once, Stonetail feels the sudden urge to split him open, to see what lies inside. The skinny tom cannot be made solely of protective drive and careful choices. "Tell us about him then," she requests, speaking to Clay but watching Coal for a flicker of anything at all. The loner stiffens and avoids eye contact, moving onto grooming the ruffled fur along his sides. He seems to know who Stonetail meant to speak to and avoids her eyes. Now that she thinks about it, he does quite a lot of that.

"I don't really remember much," Clay confesses, shooting an apologetic look in his brother's direction. "Coal, do you?"

In silence, they all wait for Coal's answer. He methodically continues to wash his side, but his ears have drooped further, and his tail has coiled around one of his forepaws as if to provide support. "I remember a lot of things," he mumbles as if he wishes he didn't. "Mostly about our mother. I didn't spend as much time with Bear."

"Your father's name was Bear?" Streamheart asks, ears pricking with interest. Bears are creatures of legend to ShadeClan, though more than one elder in recent generations has claimed to have sighted one prowling the forest.

"Yeah, after the stories where he was from," Clay answers. "He was big and brown with really thick fur, and his paws were probably the size of Stonetail's head." Purring, he adds to her, "No offense. But he really did have huge feet."

"Kiona, our mother, wasn't that big," says Coal, surprising everyone with his addition to the narrative. "She was tall and thin, but had small paws and a small nose and…she was small." It's a lame, self-conscious finish, capped with a hasty smoothing of the fur on his chest.

Clay gives his brother a despairing look and stretches a paw out in his direction. "Is that all you've got?" He shakes his head, and instead of waiting for Coal to fill in the blanks, does it himself. "She and Coal looked exactly alike, except Coal had really stumpy legs for a long time. He had to run to keep up with her while she walked, kind of like we all had to run to keep up with Bear. But Bear didn't go places a lot, and Kiona did, so Coal did a lot of running."

Stonetail finds it hard to picture lanky, twig-thin Coal scampering along in the wake of a graceful shadow, legs pumping furiously to keep up with a mild trot, but suddenly she can, short limbs, kit fluff, and all. She pictures him tumbling downhill past his mother, careening headfirst into a puddle or a bush, bedraggled and waiting for rescue, which, of course, his mother provides. Her whiskers twitch against her will, and she shoots a glance at Streamheart, then Coal, unable to fully disguise her mirth. Streamheart is receptive, stopping to think about the image as well before letting out a stumbling purr, but Coal only grooms himself more meticulously. This pattern continues: the more silly kithood stories Clay has to share, the further Coal withdraws on himself, becoming so absorbed in cleaning, stretching, arranging his moss that his agitation brings a dour cloud over the brief joy the other three cats have found.

"I haven't eaten," he mutters when everyone turns to look at him in expectation of an answer for his behavior. His eyes graze the ground as he walks out, but when he looks back and makes eye contact with Stonetail, he snaps his gaze away and rigidly leaves for the fresh-kill pile.

An awkward silence hovers overhead. Clay appears to be on the verge of apologizing, Streamheart has sunk into her melancholy state again, and Stonetail cannot wrap her head around Coal's sudden skittishness. Where is the spitfire tom who had to be wrestled to the ground for demanding asylum, and what in StarClan's name has he been replaced with?

No one is given long to answer the question, because a screech explodes from the camp proper. "Do not eat that rabbit!"

"Robinfoot," Streamheart says, lunging to her feet and flying past Clay, who tries to catch her tail with his own as if to call her back. He misses and helplessly follows with Stonetail at his side, and by the fresh-kill pile, they find Coal frozen over the body of a young rabbit. The black tom, poised over the rabbit with his jaws parted, is as still as death for a moment under Robinfoot's wild stare. Then he cautiously rights himself and takes a step back from the prey, staring straight at the medicine cat.

It's not like Robinfoot to be so aggressive. Stonetail can't remember the last time ShadeClan's medicine cat raised his voice outside of his work. He's hardly prone to wrath, but here he stands with the fur along his spine raised in violent spikes. "No one touch that rabbit," he says to the gathering crowd.

For a moment, it seems that the brown tabby has gone mad, but Greystar, ever attentive to her camp, shoulders her way toward him. The haggard, crazed look in Robinfoot's eyes winks out, replaced by anxious deference. "What in StarClan's name are you yowling about?" she asks him, though she must know that the rabbit is the source of the drama; she casts it a sideways, offhand glance.

"Lakewhisker's patrol caught rabbits this morning," the medicine cat replies, hurrying through his words. "Thornpaw, Darkfeather, and Sootwing went with him to the BreezeClan border, and caught a couple rabbits that strayed into our territory for their meal. They brought two more back." Here, he dove into the fresh-kill pile and tugged out another rabbit by its hind leg, holding it gingerly between his teeth as if it pains him to touch it. "I think it made Lakewhisker sick," he finishes.

Streamheart does not wait to hear the rest of the tale. Instead, she sprints toward the medicine den, presumably to be with her father. Stonetail realizes that if the illness that struck Lakewhisker really has originated with these rabbits, then the silver tabby is in no danger of contracting the sickness herself. She sighs.

Greystar is less concerned with Streamheart. "Where are the other three, then?" she asks, looking towards the empty warriors' den. Redpaw answers for Thornpaw, though, crying out from the other side of camp. Next to her, the golden tom lies unblinking on the ground before thrashing about and making harsh choking noises. Robinfoot slips into his steady role as medicine cat again with the commotion, sending Redpaw to get Thrushpaw from the medicine den. Any trace of fear or anxiety over the rabbits has been replaced by the need to ensure Thornpaw's recovery.

Stonetail's skin crawls beneath her pelt. The rabbits have never been sick in greenleaf before. So why now?

»»««

The rabbits are not the only ones who have fallen sick. A day later, while Lakewhisker and Thornpaw are recovering and Sootwing and Darkfeather are slogging through their own bout of the sickness, a cat arrives from BreezeClan. Her name is Mothmoon, she tells Oaknose, whose patrol discovers her stumbling through the forest, and cats are dying. Apparently, seizures have wracked the other Clan, reducing warriors to shambling, shaking bags of bones, teetering on the edge of death. Some have recovered, like hardy Hawkwing and young Shortpelt, but others still court StarClan. "We need help," Mothmoon begs before Greystar and Featherstar, who were sharing a hushed meal before the ginger tabby's arrival. Looking directly to Featherstar, she adds, "Your deputy and medicine cat have been doing their best to help our medicine cat, but your Clan is falling sick, too. Please send help."

Greystar is, naturally, reluctant to offer aid, but Featherstar is adamant, demanding for all the ShadeClan camp to hear that help be provided to BreezeClan and the remainder of WillowClan residing in the other territory. "You cannot choose to save half of a Clan," the white leader says boldly. In one short declaration, she takes her stand, opting to side with the portion of her Clan she is parted with.

Stonetail finds she admires Featherstar from then on. True, the WillowClan leader might be a half-Clan cat, and true, Stonetail's family line is entwined with Featherstar's, but she feels no kinship for the long-furred she-cat, only an observer's respect. After all, Featherstar has spoken out against Greystar and succeeded, making it appear simple, even trivial. A single announcement, brimming with contempt for the idea that Greystar _might_ choose to save half a Clan, and the recovery effort is set underway. Featherstar's smooth influence is impressive.

And if Featherstar is a suave diplomat, Greystar is an efficient tactician. Not to be shamed by Featherstar's actions, she saves face by rising from their shared meal to go speak to Robinfoot about running supplies between the camps. She leaves the carcass of her squirrel lying before the WillowClan leader, as if expecting her half-sister to clean up after her, which, to her credit, Featherstar does. It's a delicate game of holier than thou, waged in acts of reason and charity.

Streamheart hates it. "Cats are dying," she tells Stonetail that afternoon, lying next to Lakewhisker, who is softly snoring his illness away, "and they have the nerve to play for power at the same time. They're supposed to be leaders, not kits."

Maybe Stonetail agrees, but caught between her new appreciation for Featherstar's deftness and the old wounds between her and Greystar, it's hard to say what she truly believes, and so she pretends to go along with it, nodding her head and turning the focus back to Lakewhisker as soon as she can. He's recovering at a slower pace than Thornpaw, who, while small and shaken, is younger and sprier. The old grey tom's muscles still tremble in sporadic attacks, but they are vanishing with time. Neither of the younger warriors want to leave him until he can reliably stand on his own, though.

Of course, Stonetail cannot stay. The situation in BreezeClan warrants another medicine cat's attention, and the two cats for the job require an escort.

"Stonetail, Streamheart, get the loners," Greystar commands, not even bothering to stick her head into the medicine den. "The four of you will be chaperoning Thrushpaw to BreezeClan tonight."

Is there a response for such an order? There's no respectful way to defy her leader (there never is), but with Thrushpaw involved, she desperately wishes there were. Beside her, Streamheart fixes her with a stern look that screams, "Go fix things or so help me StarClan."

Needless to say, it's far easier to obey the wordless advice of her best friend that the impersonal imperatives of her mother. With as little commotion as possible, Stonetail gathers Clay from the elders' den, where he has been sitting with Redpaw and Mistpaw to listen to the tales Poppywing and Owlclaw have to tell. With his usual enthusiasm, he scampers off to retrieve Coal from the warriors' den, and soon they reunite at the camp entrance. Thrushpaw arrives shortly, flanked by Streamheart.

"Four of you?" she asks, setting down her packet of herbs. "This is a medicine run, not a patrol."

"Greystar's orders," replies Stonetail, taking a deep interest in removing a blade of grass from between her toes. Suddenly she feels like the apprentice all over again; Thrushpaw has capitalized on their rift, adopting the brusque mannerisms of an efficient medicine cat as if she were born for the role. Perhaps she was. There is a squareness to her shoulders now, a shine in her eye that had been missing before. Either way, Stonetail feels cowed, and cannot recall the mentor she once was. Even the attitude she adopts for Clay and Coal eludes her, because Thrushpaw is just not the same. Selfishly, the grey warrior wishes she were.

Admitting this is not an option. In silence, the small party sets out for the BreezeClan border, Thrushpaw and eager Clay taking the lead, followed by Streamheart. Stonetail, though she feels the itch to head the group, lingers, unwilling to chance irritating the tension that lurks so close to the surface. Coal also lags, his forepaw still swathed in cobwebs, though in fewer than before. He manages a steady limp disguised as a gangly lope.

In pairs, though with Thrushpaw the lone lead, they pad along the ShadeClan trails, but somehow their order gets mixed up. Stonetail slowly realizes that Coal has increased his pace to meet in the middle with Clay, who feels the need to marvel at every new detail he comes across, causing him to fall behind. Thrushpaw falls back to mesh with the group, perhaps feeling too forward as the leader, a position Streamheart takes naturally to, and guilt straddles Stonetail's shoulders as she realizes she is the only one lagging. In a couple reluctant bounds, she draws level with Thrushpaw.

Neither cat takes the initiative to speak. Clay's chatter fills the background, a comfortable white noise they can sink into it, but somehow it cannot break through the tense bubble surrounding them. The tabby's voice grows muffled and distant in Stonetail's ears, and she sneaks glances at the little apprentice beside her; they do not go unnoticed.

"What?" Thrushpaw finally asks, the word coming out semi-stifled from behind her packet of herbs.

It's a good question, one Stonetail dreads to answer, so instead she asks one of her own: "Are you okay?" By the furrow of Thrushpaw's brow, though, the grey tabby knows she's asked the wrong question. Quickly, she amends herself. "As Robinfoot's apprentice," she adds. "Are you…happy with it?"

She shouldn't have to ask. She knows the answer. It was written into every hesitant swing, every reluctant pounce and bite and snarl. Nearly five moons of warrior training should have made it so clear: Thrushpaw was not happy before. She wasn't happy until it was over.

Thrushpaw stops here, setting her bundle down at her feet. "I'm better," she says. "I'm right." Stonetail almost flinches. Since when was it a question of right and wrong? But then she realizes that there's no condescension in the phrase. Rather, Thrushpaw means that she feels right. And while Stonetail has considered this role may hold purpose for her former apprentice, it's stunning to finally accept that the little she-cat has discovered a path worth walking.

More stunning is the question Thrushpaw asks in return, just as the loner toms catch up. "Are you happy with it?" Clearly not intending to speak further, she picks up her herbs again and stares at the grey warrior, waiting for her answer. The brothers stop as well, and Stonetail feels three sets of eyes on her, then four as Streamheart pauses. Thrushpaw's simply wait, neutral, while Clay is expectant, eager to hear what Stonetail has to say. Streamheart's eyes are patient, knowing as usual. And then there is Coal, who drops his gaze immediately. He is hardly the paragon of honesty and openness.

And so Stonetail opts to tell the truth. "No," she admits. "I'm not."

They walk the rest of the way to BreezeClan in silence. Even Clay senses the change in the air and clamps his mouth shut, not even pestering Coal with questions. Together, they cross the border, meet a patrol, and are escorted to the other Clan's camp, where Thrushpaw sets them to work assisting Crookedfoot and Brackenheart, the other two medicine cats.

Curiously, she sends Clay to Crookedfoot, Coal to Brackenheart, and Streamheart to Cloudwing, claiming Stonetail as her own aide. Amidst her steady instructions and administrations, the medicine cat apprentice pauses once. Looking Stonetail in the eye, she says, "I'd be upset, too. I'm sorry."

Stonetail is okay with that.


	13. INTERLUDE III

As he helps to treat the sick cats of BreezeClan, obediently trailing Crookedfoot of WillowClan to the ill, Coal hears cats ask for guidance from StarClan. From what he gathers, the Clans believe their ancestors to be sage messengers, stoic guardians, invoked in times of bounty and need alike. With the rabbit sickness running rampant, this is certainly a time of need.

Unlike the Clan cats, Coal does not pray. If there were spirits waiting to guide their kin in desperate times, his mother would have spoken to him by now. She was so steady in life, so sleek and sure and sweet.

In death, she is silent.

Truthfully, he cannot recall her voice. Her final screams are carved into his heart, the first taste of sacrifice he has ever known, but when he tries to dredge up simple sentences in her voice, he fails. Even his own name eludes him. Did she ever speak his name at all?

Coaxing a frail apprentice into swallowing the bitter herbs Thrushpaw brought to ease the sickness, Coal despises the details that have yet to desert him, the awful memories so intrinsically linked to his mother no matter how often he wishes they were not. Sometimes, the wind is still and the sky clean, and yet he smells smoke. It assaults him, makes him want to retch. If he's in private, he often does.

Other times, like now, as he finally succeeds in dealing with the brown tom before him, he feels stinging on his skin, hot and prickly, like the sizzling touch of embers. There is never anything there, though, when he itches and scratches and gnaws at the sensation. He has learned to ignore it, to pretend he does not believe there are a thousand ants crawling beneath his pelt. No one knows.

Thankfully, time has dulled these hallucinations to a mere nuisance, not a debilitating intrusion. They have lost their bite to long moons of the barest survival. One, though, is still a steady ghost, haunting Coal mercilessly, and living among ShadeClan has taught him that, were he a religious cat, he would pray to be left alone.

The yellow eyes never fail to jar him, to set his fur on end. They hover in bright flashes of lightning, and occasionally stare at him from the round moon. But lately, they follow him critically. To make them go away, he must either make eye contact or look aside, because they watch him only from the fleeting corners of his vision. The former technique, however, has become much less successful. Often, when he looks up, those yellow eyes remain.

One day, Coal suspects that Stonetail will ask why he avoids her gaze. He plans to tell her nothing, or at least not to make a verbal confession. With any luck, bowing his head and keeping his distance will convince the grey warrior that he fears her, or at least defers to her. Feigning submission is so much easier than looking her in the eyes.

Sometimes, most of the time, her gaze is a pale green, like her mother's. But Coal has seen her wear the yellow eyes like a second skin. She doesn't know, of course; she cannot see the yellow eyes like he can. No one can see the yellow eyes like he can.

Left alone as Crookedfoot goes in search of the next patient, Coal feels smoke trickling down his throat, and though he is not a religious cat, he closes his eyes and prays.

"Kiona. Mother. Take them away. I've done my best to get away, and I've kept Clay safe. I can't rest, though; the eyes don't leave. Please take them away."

He sits in silence for a heartbeat. The smoke tickles his lungs, in no rush to depart. But he quickly realizes that this smoke is more than his harried heart playing tricks on him. It is a secret, biding its time but ready to emerge, fully realized.

"Take them," he asks one final time. "If they're here, I can't stay. And I want to stay."


	14. X - OMEN

There are more sick cats than anticipated, and less safe prey to go around than the medicine cats would like. Space is made in the corner of the camp for the ShadeClan visitors, though it is a small space indeed. WillowClan has already taken up most of the prime nesting spots, and the best BreezeClan can do as hosts is offer sparse moss under a thorny bracken overhang beside the nursery. To fit into the space, they have to curl up tightly as if they were all kits again, comfortable piling onto one another. Of course, none of them are kits, and though Thrushpaw is small and quite at ease in a limited space, the others are less pleased with the arrangement.

Streamheart pushes Clay's tail out of her face again and rolls onto her side to face Stonetail, who is packed close to the nursery wall with her legs tucked beneath her body as tightly as possible. "Kill me," complains the silver tabby. Her back paw is trapped below the rest of Clay, who snores soundly as the moon trundles its way higher into the sky.

Not that Stonetail is in much better of a position. Close to her side is Thrushpaw, fast asleep on her side with her white paws curled close in front of her chest. The guilt that would come with disturbing her prevents the grey warrior from moving in that direction. She cannot go forward, either, as the nursery makes an outward curve, ending just behind Streamheart's back. Backward is not an option whatsoever, because Coal has the end of her tail trapped between his paws. He sleeps restlessly, small chirrups escaping him from time to time as he churns his back paws, but he does not let go of her tail.

"Kill me," Stonetail echoes back to Streamheart, flicking her ears before pinning them back to gesture in the black tom's direction.

Streamheart's whiskers twitch. She whispers, "He's asleep, right?"

"Think so."

"So just take it back."

The advice doesn't seem sound, though. "And have him put his claws through my tail? No thanks. Looks like he's dreaming, anyways," Stonetail mutters. It's true; Coal does look like his dreaming, though perhaps being haunted by a nightmare might be a better way to describe it. She's never heard of a cat having a pleasant dream and kicking in their sleep the way he is. She could wake him, of course, tell him to settle down and grab his brother's ear or something instead, but decides to let the dream run its course. Sooner or later, he'll let go.

Until then, she lies awake, surrounded uncomfortably with only a bracken wall to stare at. And when her tail is finally free, her head sags against her chest, the rising sun beginning to illuminate the BreezeClan camp.

»»««

Coal wakes the whole party before sunhigh, the fur along his spine standing on end. "Clay is gone!"

The tom's theatrics are at once irritating and worrisome. Everything under the sun puts him on edge, but looking around and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Stonetail realizes she too shares Coal's unease.

"Are you sure he's not out making dirt?" Streamheart asks, pausing mid-sentence to yawn.

"His spot is cold," Coal replies, slapping a paw down in the bent grass where his brother had spent the night. "Making dirt doesn't take that long."

Thrushpaw pipes up. "He bumped me after sunrise," she says. "I saw him get something from the freshkill pile. And he talked with Mothmoon. She was standing guard, and I went back to sleep after that."

Three pairs of eyes fix on the apprentice. There is amber fear, blue patience, and green thought. Stonetail looks away first, turning to drink in the detail of the BreezeClan camp. The cats who can still stand are crossing back and forth to aid their sick Clanmates, and those who cannot are spread out in their own private corners, coughing softly or fighting down tremors. Among those running errands for the sick is Mothmoon, her ginger-and-white coat vibrant among the dried green-brown grasses that shelter the camp.

"Go ask Mothmoon where he went," she suggests to Coal. "She's helping those apprentices."

The black tom needs no further urging. He bounds over Streamheart's tail, streaking across the camp like a haggard crow to throw himself in the BreezeClan warrior's way. Thrushpaw, Streamheart, and Stonetail cannot hear what he has to say from where they sit, but they can see his agitation grow worse, and fear-scent trickles toward them on the breeze moments before Coal comes flying back to them.

"She said he left camp," he blurts out. "He wouldn't leave without telling one of us! We have to find him."

"I'm sure he's just exploring. Coal, your brother is fascinated by things he's never seen before. You should have seen him when I first gave him a tour of the WillowClan border," Streamheart says evenly. "He's not a kit. He can scent his way back, and we won't leave without him."

Thank StarClan someone is calm. If everyone dissolved into hysteria, Stonetail would lose her mind. As it is, she can't help but feel uncertain. Streamheart may be right about Clay's wanderlust, but Coal has spent his life watching over his brother. Yet his nerves seem to be shot as of late. Choosing a cat to side with is an impossible task.

Thrushpaw decides for her.

"Over the ridge!" the apprentice suddenly cries. A flock of ravens tears through the cloudy sky, squawking violently. The stragglers are more vocal than the rest, and one in particular seems to have more energy to call out than to fly. Its wing is torn and jagged, dripping blood down to the earth below. The ShadeClan cats watch with jaws hanging as it spirals downward and crashes into the center of the BreezeClan camp. With a feeble croak, it falls still.

Thrushpaw refuses to look at it at first. Instead, her gaze follows the fleeing flock, so intent on leaving one of its own lying dead in the grass. "Something startled them," the brown tabby whispers. She then turns to the fallen raven, which is under close, curious scrutiny from Brackenheart. The senior medicine cat seems puzzled as to the nature of the bird, but the horror on Thrushpaw's face can only mean that she has reached an understanding.

"What is it?" Streamheart asks, prodding the tabby's side gently.

"I have to go home," Thrushpaw replies, voice wavering. "I have to warn Greystar!" She makes to leap past her Clanmates, but Stonetail bars her way.

"Warn her about what? The raven? Is it an omen?"

"Yes!" Thrushpaw makes a bid for freedom again, but now Streamheart intervenes, taking her by the scruff and setting her back a few paces.

"So tell us," says the silver tabby. "And we'll go warn Greystar together."

But Thrushpaw shakes her head. "You three have to find Clay. You have to go." She inhales sharply, her eyes round as the moon and flooded with terror. Her tail lashes back and forth, swatting leaves free of their weaving into the nursery walls with its horrified force. "There's going to be a death!"

Stonetail bristles. "Go home, Thrushpaw," she commands, stepping out of the way. "Streamheart, tell Harestar we have to go. And you–" But there's no need to finish the sentence. The black tom nods at the BreezeClan camp entrance, and takes off without another word. In a few harried strides, Stonetail bursts into the open meadow by his side.

»»««

"I don't believe in omens," says Coal when they stop to check Clay's feeble trail for the third time.

"For a nonbeliever, you run like you do," Stonetail replies. She parts her jaws, and snaps them shut again when Clay's earthy scent hits the roof of her mouth in fragments. The tabby tom has not passed this way since much earlier in the morning.

Coal catches something, though. His body stiffens, the only cue that he is about to launch himself into the tall grasses once more, and Stonetail tenses to follow. Surprisingly, though, he pauses to look back at her. "Ravens don't fly away screaming for no reason," he says, "and the wind doesn't rip off their wings. Something is out here, and so is my brother."

"So you don't believe in omens."

"No. But I believe in what I can see."

They charge down the trail only Coal seems certain of in silence. The tall grass is dizzying, thousands of browned stalks waving in the breeze, the same scene time and time again. How BreezeClan cats function in this labyrinth, Stonetail cannot tell. How _Coal_ seems so certain in the sameness of the grass, she cannot tell. Her skin crawls, and instinct screams that they're rushing in useless circles, that they'll never find Clay racing about like this.

And then the wicked scent of vomit reaches her. She skids to a halt. "Wait!" she shouts, swiping a paw at Coal's passing tail, but the black tom seems fixed on his brother's scent and barrels past her. Left alone in the tall grass, she is caught between following the loner and investigating the rank stench.

"He can handle himself," she reasons aloud as the pull in her gut says to trust her curiosity. Wrinkling her nose, Stonetail plunges further along, watching every pawstep carefully. She can't say why she's decided to follow such a disgusting trail. At this rate, she'll retch as well, but her instinct demands she investigate regardless. To keep from inhaling the worst of it, she holds her breath as long as she can, taking in sharp little gasps when her chest tightens. It's hardly efficient, and it probably looks absolutely harebrained, but it does what it needs to do up until she reaches the source, where the stench is at its strongest and most putrid.

"Clay?"

The brown tabby lifts his head from the ground. His eyes drift to Stonetail but they're cloudy, unfocused. "Hey," he drawls, "what're you doing here?" He belches and adds thickly, "I haven't been…been gone that long yet."

Stonetail ignores his nearly slurred speech, more interested in the way Clay's hind legs seem to kick and shiver of their own accord. "Did you eat any rabbits?" she demands, tiptoeing around a watery puddle of half-digested fur to sniff Clay's flank. "Even a little bit?"

"Nope," he mumbles. "Took the safe stuff from Mothmoon. No rabbits." His foreleg jerks abruptly, whacking against Stonetail's. Clay grimaces when the grey warrior jumps.

Picking her way around to Clay's other side, she tries to bolster him to his feet, but he's dead weight. Moaning, he tries to roll over and push her away, but his strength fails him. "I've got the rabbit sickness," he tells her. "Don't touch me."

Stonetail falls back onto her haunches. "Are you sure you didn't eat a rabbit?" she asks. If he hasn't, then maybe she should keep her distance. The sickness could be contagious after all. But then how have the cats helping the sick stayed healthy, and how have the sick fallen ill if it hasn't been the rabbits? It's a vicious cycle of questions, one contradicting the other. Stonetail snorts in frustration.

"Never mind," she says before Clay can answer her. "We need to get you somewhere safe, though. Can you stand?"

The heavy tabby pauses to think. "No," he mutters. "Too shaky. Everything spins a lot, too."

"Even with help?"

"Think so."

Perhaps it's better not to move him until the tremors have passed. The grey warrior hates to imagine Clay tumbling downhill mid-seizure. She can't help but think of the flock of ravens, though, and Coal's certainty that something is amiss out in the territory.

"We need to move," she whispers mostly to herself, not that Clay is paying attention to her anymore. His ears are pricked in the direction of the border, and he is fighting to keep his jerking limbs from flying out of control. Rigid and looking more than a little strained, he flicks his tail until he catches Stonetail's side with it, drawing her attention to a particular segment of the meadow.

The grass is rippling softly. Something lurks downwind, making steady progress through the overgrown meadow. Even if the wind had been in her favor, Stonetail is not certain she could smell anything beyond the reek of Clay's sickness. Her claws sink into the dirt and she places herself between Clay and whatever approaches, hackles rising.

She meets the threat in midair, claws outstretched and hooking into short, dark fur. They struggle for a moment, screeching, and suddenly Coal's scent slams into the roof of her mouth. "Wait!" she cries, untangling herself and rolling aside as one of the loner's paws comes crashing down where her chest had been just moments ago. He stops as well, amber eyes wide with shock, and mutters a quick apology before sidestepping a puddle of muck to inspect his brother's condition.

"Rabbit sickness," Stonetail blurts out as the brothers touch noses in relief. "Except he didn't eat rabbits. He might be contagious."

"No," Coal replies flatly, continuing his inspection. "It's a stream that winds past your border. I followed Clay's scent past it, and it's filthy."

"Filthy with what?" But she wonders if she already knows the answer. She looks down at her paws, which she washed in the stream that branched off from the WillowClan river the day she and Streamheart went on their secret escapade. It winds through BreezeClan's territory closest to ShadeClan, joined by another stream with its origins in the river and its path twisting past what was once the Gathering Place.

When Coal says the water is thick with ash, Stonetail wishes she could be surprised.

"If it's the streams, why are the rabbits making cats sick?" she asks. Coal grunts, trying to shift Clay to his feet, and Stonetail lunges to support the tabby's other side. Somehow, they get him upright, leading him to stumble over an apology and fumble with gratitude.

When they are making slow progress in moving Clay to safety, Coal finally replies. "I bet there's a warren by the stream. Or there was before it got sick. And if it's the water, anything could get sick. Other prey and cats who drink from it." He wrinkles his nose and glances at Clay. "Did you stop at the stream?"

"For a long time," Clay groans, realizing all too well his mistake. "Got thirsty."

"There you have it," says Coal. "Now let's get back to ShadeClan."

ShadeClan? "BreezeClan is closer," Stonetail argues. "And they'll have the fresh herbs Thrushpaw brought."

Coal gives her a short look across his brother's shoulders. "I don't want to impose," he replies. "They've got enough sick cats without a third Clan taking up their space and waiting to recover. We should just go back the way we came. There's space there."

"Your brother is only standing because we're holding him up. You really want him to walk all that way?"

"Streamheart and our very own medicine cat apprentice went home," Coal retorts. "You really want to stay in BreezeClan overnight?"

It's not the slight mimicry that almost makes Stonetail stop. It's the fact that Coal has just called ShadeClan home. But whose home? Hers, of course, but she isn't sure what the black tom really thinks of it. Probably that it is at least a home for his brother, if she had to guess. If there's one thing she has learned about the skinny loner, it is that he often forgets to think for himself first. Selflessness can be admirable, sometimes even prudent, but Stonetail suspects it runs so strongly through Coal's veins that he'll die of it one day. Mousebrain, she thinks, but she makes no further attempt to argue. Let them attempt to make it over the border, and when Clay calls a halt, she'll savor the feeling of being right, but only then.

The midday sun beats down on their backs through the grass, sweltering and ruthless. The height of greenleaf is approaching. Already the season has been fraught with humid, horrid storms, and though the sky is absolutely clear and dry, not a cloud in sight, Stonetail knows another storm will come soon. Greenleaf is always twirling between sun and shadow, a fickle waltz that the Clans must learn rather than try to stop. Still, the grey warrior wishes she could call a halt to the harsh sun; the heat is causing all sorts of foul orders to rise off Clay's pelt where it is matted from lying in the dirt amidst clumps of his own past meals. She wrinkles her nose against it, and Coal, too, wears an expression of discomfort with the reek. Neither one much wants to breathe in the foul odors.

This is what causes them to stumble over the next raven.

Trying so hard not to inhale the pungent scents wreathing around them, Coal and Stonetail both skid to a halt, nearly treading on the mutilated body of a raven they failed to scent. Its left wing is nearly torn off, the ground dyed a rich red where it lies. One eye faces skyward, glassy and dark, empty of life.

"Another?" Stonetail asks. The brothers squint at the bird, Clay out of confusion, and Coal likely out of suspicion, if not fear.

"Same wing torn as the first," says the dark tom slowly. "Like it's deliberate."

That's a dangerous word. A deliberate death for this crow means there is not something out in BreezeClan's territory.

But there very well could be _someone_.

Suddenly returning to ShadeClan sounds mighty appealing, and Stonetail urges the toms around the bird, hurrying them through the grass though she has only a vague sense of where to go. When they see the border, she reasons, then she can guide them home. But the border doesn't seem to get any closer, and the grasses seem to get taller, and the sun shifts just a little in the sky.

And then they find another raven, killed in the same way as its fellow, wing ripped away from its body.

This time it is Clay who asks, "Another?"

"It's being wasted. At this rate, it will be crowfood," Stonetail mutters. The waste might make her angry under any other circumstances, but instead she only feels a prickle of ice down her spine. She shivers; so does Coal.

"Like I said, it's deliberate. We have to go," he insists.

"But why leave them like this?" asks Clay. He sags against his brother, but he is looking sharper than he did before, if only a little. "Why drop them randomly? Unless a BreezeClan apprentice got a little careless. Do you think they got dropped on the way to camp?"

Stonetail freezes, tail dropping between her legs. "BreezeClan," she mumbles.

"What about it?" Coal gives her a narrow glance, but she ignores him, mustering all her courage to brave Clay's awful stench. She parts her jaws, drinks in the bitter, dry air, and comes close to choking on the tabby's reek. But now that they are away from the worst of it, she can smell other things. Some of it is Coal and herself, their trail being carried on the wind but laid nowhere close to the bird. Some of it, however, is cat. She has no identity for the smell, as it could be any cat at all besides ShadeClan, but distinctly she smells cat smeared across the bird's bloody feathers. It does not alarm her nearly as much as the scent of fox, though.

"Run to the border as fast as you can, or find somewhere small to hide," she commands Coal and Clay. They look at her, baffled, but she gives them both a quick swat over the head. "Run! The birds are a trail!"

Maybe they believe her. Maybe they don't. Either way, the brothers shoot through the grass as fast as Clay's weary, trembling legs can carry him. Though the bird is beginning to smell positively awful in the hot sun, Stonetail drops her nose to it and memorizes the wispy scent of cat underneath, mingled with blood from the raven. The two are difficult to separate, and she does not bother to try. Whoever this cat is, they've laid out a trail, and a fox has already passed this way.

Stonetail doesn't have a plan. At least, she doesn't have much of one. Streaking through the grass, she searches for another fallen raven, praying it does not lead where she thinks it does. BreezeClan is too weak to deal with a fox prowling straight into its heart. Yet there are more, all with torn wings and the growing stench of fox spread over them. It's too late, the grey warrior can't help but think. I'm too late!

But by some twist of luck, some miracle of getting lost in the grasses, she arrives atop a small hill where the grass is shorter and the sun so much hotter without the wavering shade. From this vantage point, Stonetail spots the scarlet body of the fox creeping through the grass, stopping to examine a dark speck underfoot. Tree-lengths and tree-lengths beyond is the hollow in the hills that BreezeClan calls home.

The breeze stirs. Fox-scent caroms into her nose and sends her reeling. She's half-convinced it's ruined her brains, too, because a plan fit only for fools comes to her. There's no chance of shifting the trail away from the camp, not with the fox so close. And she may not be able to reach BreezeClan in time to summon their strongest remaining warriors for a fight, but perhaps she doesn't have to.

Downwind of the fox is a very good place to be, and with her body low to the ground, Stonetail slithers into the towering grass once more. She is no snake, of course, and neither is she BreezeClan born; the ability to trek through the grass without betraying her position is not her skill. But she can fight, and she can screech, and she does both of these when she explodes from the grass, catching the fox's bushy tail in her teeth and giving it a horrible wrench. The lithe creature yelps, a high sound that carries on the clear air, and spins to snap at her with jaws lined with slimy yellow teeth.

Stonetail reconsiders her plan. It is at once harebrained, reckless, and likely to see her dead. Suddenly, her choice is an even more terrible one than it was when she made it, though that is only clear in hindsight. With a yowl, she dives out of the fox's reach, sneaking in a slash at its right ankle as she hurtles past it.

"StarClan help me," she wheezes, turning to face her foe as it hisses and spits her way, pointed ears pinned flat to its skull as it slobbers at her. She's a fresh kill for this fox, still warm, still pumping hot blood to all corners of her body, not to mention that she's much bigger than a raven. "I'm going to die."

Instinct screams run. Instinct also screams fight. Torn between the two, Stonetail narrowly dodges as the fox swipes a black paw at her forehead. It grazes the tip of her ear, but compared to being a meal, the wound is preferable. She still screeches, though, in one part to startle the fox, and in another to draw the attention of any BreezeClan cat perhaps just a pawstep too far from camp. There is no way she can chase the fox off alone, let alone kill it. She needs help.

But no one comes from BreezeClan. There is no battle cry, nor wavering grass to signal a stealthy approach. Stonetail throws herself past another heavy blow, this time crying out as the beast catches the tip of her tail underfoot. It bares its yellow fangs hungrily and lunges, thinking her trapped, but instead of straining to pull away, she turns toward its ready maw and sinks her claws into its nose on both sides. Blood spurts from the dual wounds, streaking into the fox's eyes, and when it whips its head in pain, Stonetail flies to the side, landing in a tangled heap. There's no time to lick her wounds, though, and she scrambles to her feet, prepared before she must leap aside again.

She and the fox dance in circles through the grass, which grows wet from the blood that drips off the hungry animal's muzzle. They do not so much as trade blows as dodge them, though the fox is growing both more frustrated and more accurate. Meanwhile, Stonetail's heart triples its pace, a rabbit cornered by a very ravenous snake, and it skips a beat each time the fox gives her another shallow, hindering scrape.

And then the shadow explodes from the grass.

Coal latches on the fox's back in silence, hind claws sinking in beside the spine while he plunges the other set forward, into the back of the fox's neck. Before he can be bucked off, he takes an ear in his jaws, too. It's a brief distraction, one that the fox will dispatch as soon as it rolls over, squashing Coal underneath and continuing to roll so it can make a meal of Stonetail as well.

Which makes it a brief window of opportunity as well. Stonetail knows she must catch the fox before the roll, or Coal will suffer for it. When the fox thrashes its head again, trying to throw the skinny tom off, the grey warrior takes her chance and flings herself toward its chest, claws outstretched. She, too, latches onto the creature, but instead of hanging on for dear life, grasping anything within reach so as not to lose her grip, she stretches upward and closes her jaws on the beast's windpipe, eliciting a choked howl that fades to a burbling whine. A metallic flavor fills her mouth, sweet and sour all at once, but she does not let go, waiting only for the fox to stop flailing around enough that she can be confident it is dying. Only then does she breathlessly let go, falling back on trembling paws.

The fox crumples in the dirt. Coal hops away nimbly, sidestepping the red creature's final death throes, and makes his way over to Stonetail. "Smelled the fox," he explains, "and thought you could use another set of claws." His gaze wavers, and there's a carefully controlled edge to his voice. Fear, slowly subsiding.

"Just a bit," she replies by way of thanks, bobbing her head weakly. "I wanted to break the trail, but then the fox was too close to the camp. Couldn't beat it there."

"So you tried to fight it by yourself?"

It sounds stupid. It _was_ stupid. Stonetail hangs her head and sighs. "I may have…made some snap decisions."

"I'll say."

They opt not to trek to the camp to tell BreezeClan of the dead fox in their territory. A patrol will discover it soon enough and do with the body as they please. Instead, Coal and Stonetail make their way to the copse where Clay is impatiently crouched, whining about not being able to participate in the fight. Together they eventually convince him that he was better off out of the scrap, and the party of three trundles home, rather bone weary. Crossing the stream onto their own territory is more draining than it ought to be, and they all stop for a rest on the other side before resuming the trudge deeper into ShadeClan lands. All along, they simmer with a nervousness all too fitting for cats having narrowly escaped death by fox, and they make as few stops as possible despite their fatigue. Clay troops onward valiantly despite his own flagging strength, and though his attempts to lighten the mood with innocent chatter do not do much, he does make an excellent point when he observes, "Well, no one is dead. Except the fox. That's one less fox around here."

"One less fox," Stonetail tiredly agrees. And not long after that, though it feels like an eternity, they plod into the ShadeClan camp and are immediately assaulted by Thrushpaw and Robinfoot alike, who usher them deep into the medicine den for care while their Clanmates look on and whisper, kicking the rumor mill back to life.

Stonetail does not bother with a full story. "Fought a fox," she grunts when the medicine cats ask her what happened. And when they can't get more than monosyllabic grunts from her, they stop asking, tending to her wounds while juggling Coal's scrapes and Clay's unsteady fever (when did that begin, wonders Stonetail). Soon she falls asleep with Thrushpaw in the middle of tending to her wounds, but before she does, she makes sure to tell the tabby that the only death that day is that of the fox, and only the fox.


	15. XI - RITUAL

After learning about the fox, albeit not in detail until the following morning, Greystar allows Stonetail the day off to recuperate via orders from Oaknose. Clay, recovering rapidly from his sickness, is nevertheless also excused, but mostly because he nearly retched on Robinfoot's tail the moment he woke.

"You need to rest," Streamheart advises when she stops by the medicine den before a midday hunting patrol. Robinfoot and Thrushpaw are both absent, tending to some other trouble in the camp. "You've run around enough for someone with a shoulder they were supposed to be resting only a couple days ago."

"It doesn't hurt," replies Stonetail, rolling the shoulder in question to prove her point.

It does hurt, but Streamheart doesn't need to know that. The silver tabby exits, placated. This gives Stonetail just enough privacy to groan and settle into a less painful position. Between the wounds delivered by the fox and the lack of adrenaline to put the pain at bay, the grey warrior feels a thousand aches at once, all in her shoulder. Poppy seeds might dull the pain, but she refrains from asking for any. They'll make her drowsy, and she has had quite enough of lying about despite the dangers activity brings.

The fight with the fox, as dangerous and foolish as it had been, had also been exhilarating. There are so few occasions to unsheathe one's claws for battle, and though that means the Clans are relatively safe, Stonetail itches to do it again. She doesn't want the danger to spread to her Clan, and she doesn't want to lead travesty over the stoop, but her blood is beginning to boil. Peace is so stagnant.

But turmoil brings misfortune, often in the form of death and sometimes to those least involved. The fire kindling in Stonetail's chest fizzles out, and she sighs, left with nothing to do but make herself comfortable until discharged to her duties once more.

Thankfully, Lakewhisker knows all about the tedium of the medicine den, and to the grey warrior's surprise, he comes to visit with two small sparrows in his jaws. Dropping them in front of her, he says with a purr, "I made sure to catch them upriver. No more of that sickness, hm?"

Stonetail's stomach growls. "Thank you," she mumbles past the chunk of sparrow already in her mouth. Until now, she had not realized how much she needed a proper meal. Adrenaline makes cats forgetful, it seems. Forgetful and hungry. Maybe just shy of starving.

Scarfing down the first sparrow while Lakewhisker delicately disassembles the second, she is more than happy to let the old tom lead the talk. "I thought that you might like some company," he begins, draping his tail over her back with a purr. "The medicine den can get a little dull; I've been in here enough times to know. StarClan, I've been in here more times than I can count. Did you know I once ended up in here for the same reason you're here now?" Stonetail gives him a sideways look. "That's right, I fought a fox. I don't think I jumped into it with as much gusto as you did, though."

The grey tabby stops chewing long enough to protest. "It wasn't gusto. It was stupid."

"And sometimes those go together better than you know." The tom's eyes fall half-shut with contentment. "You're young, Stonetail. I don't expect you to put those together until you're an old lump of fur like me, though a little caution wouldn't hurt you. But I'll blame my daughter for that. She's always been good at getting the pair of you in trouble.

"I remember when you two were about a moon shy of your apprentice ceremony and you decided to follow Fogfoot into the forest when he went hunting. He knew you were there, of course, but decided to let you two have your fun exploring. I can't say I liked it then, but now? You both came home safe, got a good scolding, and wised up enough to go by yourselves the next day. The pair of you have never missed an opportunity to be in the thick of it."

With a snort, Stonetail scatters some feathers Lakewhisker's way, causing him to sneeze. "We're the very souls of caution," she replies. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"If tackling a fox all by yourself is being the soul of caution, what does that make me? Plain lazy?" Lakewhisker laughs and gives her a gentle nudge. "You just don't like admitting you've got the heart of a lion and the sense of the mouse when it counts, you and Streamheart both. And you know? I'm proud of you two."

It's as if the wind changes abruptly in the den. Stonetail chews slower, and though she pulls one paw closer to her body while curling her tail in, she can't keep out the sudden chill that trickles down her spine. "What is it?" she asks, swallowing hard. "Don't beat around the bush."

Lakewhisker sighs. "Heart of a lion, sense of a mouse, and all the tact of a blind badger in a bramble patch. Must you crash through every conversation? Can't an old warrior have his subtleties?"

"Not when they're starting to worry me," Stonetail replies, ignoring the well-meant jibe. "Since when have you started calling yourself old, anyway?"

"When I decided it was time to retire."

Retire. It sounds scandalous. Impossible. Lakewhisker belongs in the warriors' den, a bundle of grey fur tucked neatly into the corner. First to arrive in the evening, but first out at dawn without fail. Loyal and true and old. StarClan, he is _old_. When Streamheart was born, he was not a young cat, and two complete season cycles have only heaped more age on his shoulders, which may or may not have always been so bony. It's hard to remember for sure, and Stonetail pushes the sparrow's carcass away. It tastes dry and thick all of a sudden.

"What brought this on?" she asks, taking her time forcing the question out. "You might be old, but you're not that old."

"I'm old enough, though," Lakewhisker counters calmly. "Patrols aren't as easy as they used to be, and I don't think I've gone a day without twitching like a shrew in a fit since I ate that bad rabbit. Besides, I thought about your fox. What good am I to the Clan if a fight like that would have me in walking through Silverpelt before I could lift a paw? ShadeClan needs warriors who can fight and hunt and make it around the borders without stopping for a much-needed nap. And that's warriors like you and Streamheart.

"It's time," he goes on. "I wish it wasn't, but I'm also lucky. Not all warriors get to retire."

"No, not all of them," Stonetail agrees reluctantly. She can't bring herself to look over. What if the warrior–no, the elder–sitting there is not the cat she remembers? Will retirement change him? Make him skinny, make him fat, make him blind? Her stomach flips. Will it make him forget?

"I don't think you should," she mutters, ears flattening and flaring with the heat of selfish guilt.

"If I don't, my tired bones might fall over before I get to meet the next great warriors of ShadeClan, who I'd very much like to see. Besides, I can trust this Clan with anything, including the work I'll leave behind."

Lakewhisker is at peace with the decision, that much is clear. Arguing it seems to hurt Stonetail more than it hurts her visitor, and she lashes her tail angrily. Instead of snapping at Lakewhisker, though (of all the ShadeClan cats, he has been one of the sturdiest against words meant to wound), she asks, "Have you told Streamheart?"

"Last night," he confirms. "Her first, then you. And when Greystar comes back from her border patrol, I'll tell her. I just wanted to tell my family first."

A ragged sigh bursts from Stonetail's chest. "Not just blood family?"

"Doesn't have to be. Never really has been. You're as much a daughter to me as Streamheart is."

For a while, the pair sits in silence, picking at their sparrows half-heartedly. Lakewhisker's decision is like a blanket of snow, chilling and coating the den in a hush that feels irreverent to break. Stonetail silently berates herself for reacting with such disbelief. This day would have had to come eventually, and trying to put it off even longer won't make it hurt any less.

At least one thing doesn't hurt.

"You said you're proud?"

"I did," Lakewhisker purrs. "I got to see you grow up quite well, harebrained fox fighting aside. I'm very proud."

Stonetail doesn't know if she's ever heard the words before, at least not directed at her. Her throat tightens, and though she feels like she ought to be going into mourning, she laughs. "First time I've heard that!"

"And I hope it isn't the last."

»»««

They do not get long to savor their kinship. As the pair drifts close to a nap, a wail rises from the camp, grief-stricken and sharp. "Thornpaw!"

"Stay here," Lakewhisker mutters, rising to his feet with a popping of his joints, but Stonetail disobeys and hobbles after him all the same. Whatever is in the camp is in the camp, and nothing Lakewhisker can do will change that. Perhaps she can be of some help, though.

But not this time. When they exit the den, though, Stonetail wishes she had stayed behind.

Thornpaw lies in the center of camp, Thrushpaw and Redpaw alike crouched beside his lithe form with their noses pressed into his tabby fur. Sageflight hustles her kits into the nursery, and Morningfur wobbles out to join the scene, round belly swinging and another wail tearing from her throat. Other members of the Clan, including the WillowClan refugees, look on without making eye contact.

"He relapsed this morning," Lakewhisker breathes, ducking his head. "I thought he was going to recover."

So that was why Robinfoot and Thrushpaw flew out of the den so urgently. Guilt makes Stonetail's paws heavy. Shouldn't she have known? Or maybe the medicine cats said nothing in order to prevent an uproar. All the same, her heart sinks low, and she digs her claws into the dusting of pine needles scattered across the ground. Thornpaw is young. Was young, she corrects herself, watching Morningfur grieve for her son. Everyone thought he would recover, and yet there's no life in the small, golden body.

Stonetail turns away from the scene. "I should go lie down," she mutters, and Lakewhisker does not stop her from going. However, she hesitates at the mouth of the medicine den, pausing to watch the proceedings balefully. Morningfur crouches protectively over her son's empty husk as best she can with more unborn children swelling her belly. To the queen's right, Redpaw is tearing at the earth as if digging a hole to the center of the world might bring her best friend back. At Morningfur's left, though, Thrushpaw stands motionless, staring blankly at the body of her brother (how could Stonetail have forgotten that they were littermates? the loss seems even more raw now, knowing Thornpaw was on the verge of his warrior name) with a stoicism so rare from her fragile heart. She seems less like the small bird she was named for and much more like a predator. She is a hawk, stiff backed, ears flat, gaze empty, and Stonetail realizes that if death could be hunted down and given a taste of its own terrible might, Thrushpaw would never rest until getting her vengeance.

Before the grey warrior can retreat to the quiet of the den as she meant to only moments ago, a patrol returns to camp. Immediately Robinfoot emerges from the throng that begins to obscure Thornpaw from view, and dipping and bobbing his head nervously, he informs his leader of the latest tragedy.

Her response is to call a Clan meeting.

It feels callous. Stonetail bites down a snarl, though perhaps she doesn't have the energy for one in the first place. Quietly she limps toward the Great Timber, carefully avoiding eye contact with those too heavy with grief to attend to their leader.

"The loss of a Clanmate is a tragedy, and the loss of an apprentice even more so." It's a blunt opening. Where's the warmth, the compassion? But it's Greystar; such is her style to lay out the facts without letting her heart stray in the way. However, she has the sense to bring some comfort to Thornpaw's family, not to mention the rest of the Clan, and she does it in her efficient, pragmatic way.

"I cannot raise the dead," Greystar continues, "but I can do this. With your permission, of course, Morningfur. Thornpaw was due for his warrior name, and I do not wish for him to be denied that honor."

In the following pause, all of ShadeClan looks to the golden queen, who sits with her head bowed. Almost imperceptibly, she nods, but Thrushpaw echoes the gesture much more strongly at her side, giving Greystar the clearance she needs. Atop the Great Timber, Greystar clears her throat.

"I ask my warrior ancestors to look down on this apprentice," she calls out; even in the corners of the camp, her voice rings clear. "He has learned the warrior code and given up his life in the service of his Clan. Let StarClan receive him as a warrior. From this day on, he will be known as Thornwing, a warrior of valor and zeal." Then, directly to the body, she adds a traditional ShadeClan blessing: "May you walk the stars as you walked the pines, Thornwing. May you always remember your home, and may your home always remember you."

This adjourns the meeting, but few cats disperse, instead huddling close to whisper into one another's ears. Just ahead of her, Stonetail overhears Poppywing say to Owlclaw, "Burying the young ones is always the worst."

"Always," agrees the wizened brown tom, not without a great touch of sorrow in his voice.

Stonetail misses the rest of the conversation as Coal appears at her side. "There are death rites?" he asks.

She nods, tipping her head sideways when the tom's brow furrows. "There always have been. The body will be covered in herbs, his family and closest friends will sit a silent vigil for him tonight, and tomorrow the elders will take him into the forest for burial."

Coal sits silently for a moment, taking in the movement of the camp as cats press their noses into Thornwing's fur, say a prayer, and move on without fuss. He would be superb at sitting vigils, thinks Stonetail, not that it's that crucial a skill.

"I wish I'd known," he eventually says. Guessing his meaning isn't too hard once Stonetail remembers what little the brothers have told of their parents. To her surprise, though, Coal doesn't look especially wistful. He simply observes the trickle of activity before getting up with no more a goodbye than a small nod to Stonetail.

She's grateful. At this point, silence feels better, easier in the wake of death. Conversation would riddle her with guilt she has no reason to bear.

Quietly she returns to the medicine den, lying far out of the way so Thrushpaw and Robinfoot can bustle in and out without tripping over another cat. They say nothing to Stonetail. Stonetail says nothing back, and keeps to herself until the sun starts to dip below the horizon, at which point she excuses herself to retrieve a meal.

Guilty that she had no part in hunting today, she only takes a small vole, retreating toward the den but sitting outside to soak up the sun's last warm rays as they muddle their way through billowing clouds. Near the camp's center, the rituals for Thornwing are nearing completion. Dried burnet dusts his back, a traveling herb meant to bring strength for the journey to StarClan, while a scattering of sweet chervil and coltsfoot rests across his paws. Finally, lavender ghosts his pelt, masking the scent of death if only for a short while. It is easier to pretend he is not gone with one sense fooled, though some might argue it hurts more for that to be taken away. But rituals are rituals, and they must stay the same, which is why Thrushpaw is arguing with Robinfoot. Ears pricked towards the two cats, Stonetail listens with her chin on her paws, pretending to be resting.

"There's not enough lavender," she insists tersely.

"There's enough to put the smell at bay until morning. We don't need more yet, and it can wait until after the vigil." Robinfoot sounds weary. He has been darting about all day, though, and failed to save the life of a budding warrior. That he is still on his feet is something of a miracle.

Thrushpaw's tolerance for miracles, however, seems to have dropped to a record low the moment a miracle neglected to spare her brother's life. "He deserves more lavender," she growls, and without waiting for permission, she stalks away from her mentor, looking straight ahead the whole way to the camp entrance. There, she disappears into the rising night, leaving only swishing ferns in her wake.

The part of Stonetail that still aches from the hole mentoring has left wants to scold the tabby for being so snappish, but the part of Stonetail that was once just as prone to storming off knows that a confrontation will only bring conflict to a boil. She sighs. The solitude might do Thrushpaw good.

»»««

By the time moonhigh rolls around, Stonetail cannot sleep. The smell of the medicine den makes her stomach twist, and the low hoot of an owl in the distance resonates again and again in her skull. She gives in to the relentless itch in her bones, and with a half-hearted yawn, she creeps out of the medicine den.

The camp swims in fractured moonlight, rippling across the pine needles and grass in silver waves. By the warriors' den, Stonetail spots Clay and Coal sitting upright and still, Streamheart half a tail-length behind them. A cool breeze wafts through, just cold enough to lift a shiver from Stonetail's back, but the toms do not move. Though they are not among Thornwing's closest friends and never were, it seems that they are conducting a vigil of their own at a respectful distance. A look towards the den the brothers were once confined to reveals Mistpaw doing the same with one of her Clanmates droopily squatting beside her. The apprentice is wide awake, however, and hardly blinks save for when the moonlight strikes her in the face. If the vigil didn't ask silence of the Clan, Stonetail would purr at the sight. Thornwing's death is no treat, but it is nothing less than heartwarming to discover the small pockets of unexpected support.

Around Thornwing himself are his mother, his mentor, and Redpaw. Grasspelt, his father, emerges from the dirtplace momentarily to take a seat besides his mate, draping his tail across her shoulders as he scoots closer to her side. Stonetail cranes her neck to peer at the small group, taking in the silver-bathed details until she is certain that something is amiss.

Thrushpaw is still absent.

She spoke so firmly about retrieving more lavender for her brother's sake. It's hard to believe that she isn't sitting vigil. Stonetail even slinks toward the dirtplace for another vantage point, fur startlingly silver in the moonlight, only to find that the apprentice isn't hidden behind anyone else's form. Of course, asking if Thrushpaw withdrew from the rites out of exhaustion is beyond inexcusable. Silence is the rule until sunrise unless an emergency presents itself. Answers to this conundrum will have to be obtained otherwise.

Stonetail opts to let it go. Grasspelt just emerged from the dirtplace. Who's to say Thrushpaw isn't off doing the same in a different location? Another yawn comes, this one more forceful and earnest than the last, and the grey warrior lies down on a bed of pine needles beneath one of the younger trees that lines the camp walls. It's soft and cool, and with the occasional breeze, the air is much fresher than the stuffy medicine den. Of course, the wind carries grief in swirling circles, but in the open, the scent dissipates. Out here, she might be able to get some rest.

The owl seems insistent on preventing that, however. At first, sheepishness about lying down to sleep in full view of a vigil keeps her awake, but having overcome that embarrassment, justifying her need for rest, Stonetail attempts to fall asleep. But the owl's hooting continues, low and steady.

And then, mid-hoot, it is gone.

Stonetail looks up. The moon has tracked further along in the sky, surpassing moonhigh. It is not time for owls to return to their daytime hideouts, and looking to the vigil, she realizes it is well past time for young apprentices retrieving herbs to return to their Clan to mourn their fallen brother. Slowly she rises, careful not to draw attention from the mourners, and with her ears pressed flat, she slips into the dirtplace, heading straight for the skinny gap in the wall.

It's a slight squeeze, but the break in the bracken is wide enough to allow a cat as lean as Stonetail to pass with ease. Once through the barrier, she heaves a sigh that becomes another yawn, at which point she puts a forepaw to her face and gives her ankle a short nip. It pinches sharply enough to jolt her into a more wakeful state, but doesn't hurt more than a moment. The pain ebbs quickly, and with one last glance through the dirtplace to be sure no one is following her to drag her home, Stonetail pads into the forest.

If no one else is worried about Thrushpaw, then she will be.


	16. XII - HASTE

Among the pines, light does not reach the forest floor so easily. The clouds have scattered the light as it is, but the soaring boughs of green turn silver as they soak up moonbeam after moonbeam, greedily drinking it in just like the sun and leaving the ground swathed in shadows. Stonetail usually prefers it this way, this dark. All her life, she has never been as skillful a night hunter as her dark-furred Clanmates. Her pale fur is radiant when struck by the moon, a bright sliver of silver visible even at a distance, especially to any prey she might be stalking. She fares much better in morning hunts, when the mist cloaks her from view. This, though, is not a typical hunt, and the grey warrior wishes the trees would bow low and allow her better visibility. It will be harder to find Thrushpaw in the dark even while following a trail.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, grateful that the driest part of greenleaf is yet to come, leaving the grass still supple and soft, she winds her way around the camp's edge towards the entrance. Concealed in the single holly bush that grows nearby, she pokes her muzzle into the open and breathes deeply. Hundreds of scents spring at her, all awakened by the stillness of the night and the easy flow of the wind, and she sorts through them slowly. She smells fear and grief from the camp, underscored by a heavy scent she can give no name to. It likely comes with mourning, but goes unnoticed by the mourners. Beyond that, there is the smell of rabbit droppings, deposited beneath a nearby tree, along with the trail of a mouse long gone and lucky to be alive having passed so close to so many cats. Stonetail also smells Thrushpaw's trail, the scent she has been seeking, leading towards the WillowClan border. There is another scent beneath it.

She focuses on the other scent for a moment, but recoils into the holly as a flicker of movement appears at the end of the log serving as the camp entrance, leaving the scent unnamed. Crouched low, holding her breath, she prays the cat will turn around after a moment, but by the soft rustling of the ferns, they are doing no such thing.

"Quit hiding. I know you're there," Streamheart whispers, pulling back part of the holly bush with one paw. Stonetail sighs, deflating.

"It's you," she says.

"Saw you go into the dirtplace and not come back."

"Could have been taking a while."

Streamheart snorts. "Please. I taught you that trick before we even had our warrior names. Try harder next time."

Stonetail crawls free of the bush without asking Streamheart to return to the vigil. She knows better, knows her friend has spied trouble and wants in on it. Besides, two noses may be better than one in tracking Thrushpaw down, though Streamheart is no better at hiding in the moonlight than Stonetail is. Flicking her tail over her back, the grey warrior leads her friend deeper in the forest, where they can speak without the risk of being overheard by those still in the camp.

Neither she-cat says a word until they reach the sandy training glade. The ground glitters, crystals of sand reflecting the moonlight, and it hurts to look at if a moonbeam bounces the wrong way, straight into the eye. Stonetail averts her gaze, settling down on the grassy fringe to look at Streamheart. "Thrushpaw's been gone since before moonrise," she begins. "This is her brother's vigil, and I overheard her telling Robinfoot she was going to get more lavender specifically for Thornwing, but she isn't back."

"So?" The silver tabby isn't brushing the matter off. Head cocked sideways, ears up, she wants more information. Chances are, she wants to hear a plan, no matter how under-thought it may be.

"So I want to find her. It's dark, the owls are out, and she's been out of warrior training almost half a moon now, not that it was her favorite thing in the first place. Will you help me? Please?" As much as she would like to, it seems Stonetail cannot relinquish responsibility. The day Thrushpaw was named her apprentice had been a glorious experience because suddenly her duties were _different_ , not to mention she had someone to look after instead of being looked after by Greystar's sharp gaze. The role of a mentor had changed everything, and it's hard to let that go even now, especially with the weight of failure on her shoulders. Though it is possible the medicine den has always been Thrushpaw's true calling, there is still a sense of incompetence that Stonetail cannot shake. What if this path was made possible purely by her own shortcomings as a mentor?

Pushing it out of mind, Stonetail refocuses in time to realize Streamheart has pledged her support. "In this case," says the silver tabby, "better safe than sorry. Where should we start? The maple grove?"

"Does lavender grow there?"

"I think so. I've seen big patches closer to WillowClan, but the grove has bigger flowers in smaller groups. And it's not as far from camp, and it makes a great place to nap. Some of the tree roots make nice crannies."

That settles it. "Then we start there," Stonetail says, already crossing the glade and pushing into the undergrowth. The grove is a likely hiding place, and very private provided only one cat gets the idea to hide there at a time. If Thrushpaw is ashamed of her grief or looking to mourn alone, it makes a perfect sanctuary, especially with the rest of the Clan in camp, mourning in the traditional manner.

In silence, Stonetail and Streamheart lope towards the grove. In the daylight, they may have chattered, but night is not a safe time for banter. The owls have keen hearing, and the foxes can be deadly predators by the light of the moon. As a team, the warriors can likely fend off these threats, but it is easier and far less dangerous to practice caution in the dark pines.

As they go, Stonetail is diligent about scenting the chill air. The myriad of odors is difficult to sift through, but it is a necessary task if they want to follow Thrushpaw's trail. However, the closer the warriors draw to the maple grove, the less of the apprentice's trail they can find. Instead, the metallic scent of blood lies heavy on the air.

Streamheart smells it, too. Ears flattening back against her skull, she bunches her muscles and unsheathes her claws at the grove's edge. Stonetail nods and breaks away to circle the grove, providing another angle, another view. She waits behind a stout pine, eyes flickering between the maples and Streamheart's hiding place.

A silver tabby tail shoots into the air. Signal spotted, Stonetail launches herself into the grove, claws preceding her body in the event that she needs them. To her left, a violent rustle of the undergrowth tells her Streamheart has done the same.

But there is nothing to fight. The grove may as well be asleep, and quite soundly at that. Besides the she-cats' lashing tails and the rippling breeze, nothing stirs.

"I still smell blood," Stonetail whispers. "No Thrushpaw, but blood."

"This way," replies Streamheart, crouching low without another word and slinking toward the cluster of trees to her right. Carefully, the two she-cats pick their way around the maple roots, following the bloody trail until Stonetail almost trips over its source in the gloom. She jumps back in surprise, and the movement draws Streamheart's attention.

Momentarily, they are both hovering over the mutilated body of a robin, lying spread-eagle on the forest floor.

"Who puts a perfectly good robin to waste when we have an extra half Clan to feed?" Streamheart growls, kicking the bird onto its side. It rolls to a halt on Stonetail's toes, and she inhales deeply despite the faint undertones of rot rising to the surface.

Immediately her heart stops, if only for a fraction of a second. Beneath the blood, beneath the rot, there is a third scent. Tainted by other smells, it cannot be distinguished entirely, but its resemblance to the BreezeClan ravens is all too clear.

"It's a trail," Stonetail blurts out, and when Streamheart gives her a quizzical look, the grey warrior explains every detail of the raven trail and the fox, including the mysterious scent, a piece of information she had deemed too insubstantial, too uncertain, to tell anyone before. A second appearance cannot be a fluke, though, and if the robin is meant to be just like the ravens, there may be another danger to face.

"Whatever it is, we can't lead it to camp," Stonetail insists. "We need to find the rest of the trail and break it. Carry the crowfood away, bury it, whatever it takes, or the Clan is going to be ambushed."

"You're sure about this?" presses Streamheart, though she is already digging a hole for the bird. "Completely certain?"

"I fought a fox for BreezeClan because I couldn't break the trail in time. I'd rather not do that again if I can help it, even for ShadeClan. We need to lead it away instead." She grits her teeth and joins in scraping out the hole. "I'm not letting that trail stay."

And that's enough to convince Streamheart. When they finish sweeping dirt over the robin's grave, she says, "Let's find the rest, then."

"Let's."

»»««

The warriors spend the better part of their night fueled by desperate adrenaline, scampering through the forest in search of carefully laid crowfood. The trail is not so uniform this time, consisting of various birds, mice, shrews, and other common prey, all in various states of decay, all underscored with the unknown scent. Sometimes, two or three feathery bodies are topped with a furry one all in the same location, a small pyramid of death. These are harder to bury, requiring deeper holes or more holes, and the she-cats take to carrying them, depositing the bodies as far out of the way as they dare.

"I feel like we've been all over," Streamheart mutters as she and Stonetail finish burying a vole. "We're almost at the BreezeClan border."

"Makes sense." Stonetail falls back onto her haunches to catch her breath and rest her shoulder. It aches terribly, and running around all night has done it no favors. "There might be more foxes in the meadows, and the trail is to lead them to us."

Streamheart also sits, looking drained. Unlike Stonetail, she did not have the day off. Her endurance, to reach this point and only now rest, is extraordinary, not to mention born of fear, a powerful motivator indeed.

"Wait," the silver tabby says suddenly. "We picked prey up in the grove, by the holly thicket, by the stream from the Gathering Place, and here, right?"

"Right."

"Stonetail, those all lead around the camp. Not to it."

They sit in silence for a moment, tired breathing filling the air. Running along the jagged trail has taken a great deal of strength, and thinking in this state takes a great deal more.

"Maybe it was all for nothing," mumbles Streamheart. "Just a really sick joke. Or a scare tactic." Then she sits up straight, eyes widening as she adds, "Or a distraction."

"It can't be. Not for us, at least," Stonetail reasons. "No one knew we were leaving tonight. It wasn't planned."

"But maybe it was meant for patrols," Streamheart counters. "It crosses so much of our territory. Patrols would take forever to follow a bogus trail."

"And the camp would be half empty."

"And wide open for an attack!"

Together the warriors leap to their feet, but before they dart back into the forest's heart, Stonetail hesitates. All night long, there has been only one foreign scent on their lands, and one cat cannot hope to ambush an entire Clan and then some in broad daylight, not without help. And so far, there has been no sign of assistance. She explains this to Streamheart, slowly mulling it over and searching for the connecting threads. There has to be a purpose to this preplanned game of crowfood and fear, but the puzzle is incomplete. A piece is missing, a vital piece, and even between the two of them, the ShadeClan warriors can't fathom what it might be.

"Let's do one last check for crowfood," Streamheart suggests, "just in case. Head towards WillowClan, make sure nothing's been left out there, too?"

"I suppose. If there is, we can bury it, do the patrols a favor. At this rate, we'll be out long enough to tell the dawn patrol everything."

With less fervor than they had started with, Stonetail and Streamheart follow the BreezeClan border to the west for a short way, turning northward at the first sight of the low hills that occupy ShadeClan lands near the WillowClan border. As they go, there are no signs of the trail, though Stonetail swears that she'll never get the unnamed scent out of her nose. It seems to be dogging her on the wind, billowing from behind and being carried northward. She makes no mention of it to Streamheart, blaming her exhaustion, which feels heightened by the creeping approach of dawn. Though the sun's rays have not yet crested the horizon, it won't be long before the sky shimmers with golden light. As it is, the light of the moon is beginning to fade somewhat as the silver body edges downward.

At the foot of the first hill, they stop. "The lavender patches grow over the next hill," Streamheart says. "Check there for Thrushpaw and bring her home with us if she's there?"

Thrushpaw. In the mad scurry to protect ShadeClan, Stonetail had forgotten all about the apprentice. "We should," she replies. "She might have gone home by now, but we still should." Edging in front of Streamheart, the grey tabby leads the way, laboring up the hill even as her shoulder screams at her to stop. The slope is not normally this terrible, but Stonetail is winded and injured, which makes for slow going. Mind drifting a little with the slow ascent, she realizes she's grateful for Streamheart walking behind her; if she misses a step and comes crashing down, her friend will be there to break her fall. And chastise her, of course, but that is a given.

They stop at the peak, overlooking a long, steady slope down into a miniature valley void of trees and heavy brush. The pale purple lavender blooms wave in the breeze, drained of their color by the moonlight. Many of the stalks are taller than a grown cat, and those that aren't are bound to grow close to the muzzle.

Stonetail's heart leaps, though, as she looks the scene over and spots a depression in the far side of the small flower patch. It is just big enough to accommodate one small cat while still shielding them from view by means of the surrounding stalks. "Down there!" she says, pointing with her nose, and Streamheart sighs in relief at her side before they make their way down the hillside and into the lavender.

No wonder the flowers are used in death rites to hide the smell, Stonetail thinks. The flowers' sweet smell overpowers anything else that might be drifting on the night air, and a faint pounding starts up at the base of her skull, slowly crawling up and forwards until the space between her eyes hurts. When she dies, hopefully someone will have the sense not to use too much lavender.

Thankfully the valley is a small one, and the warriors reach Thrushpaw before long. She lies on her side with her back to them, all four paws stretched out and tail draped over her hind feet. "Thrushpaw," Streamheart calls when they are a few tail-lengths away, "it's almost dawn. You've missed Thornwing's vigil."

Stalwartly the brown tabby ignores her, not even bothering to acknowledge their presence. Stonetail huffs, rolling her eyes, but instead of reprimanding her ex-apprentice, she pads ahead to nose Thrushpaw's shoulder.

And then she sees the blood.

The lavender blooms tamped down by Thrushpaw's body are brown and brittle, crusted over with dried blood. The grass beneath is similarly drenched, and now that Stonetail is here, practically on top of the missing apprentice, the metallic smell rockets through the heavy lavender, finally, _finally_ becoming apparent.

"No!" she shouts, finding no other words readily available. Darting around to Thrushpaw's other side, chanting, "Please no, please no," as she goes, Stonetail finds that her legs can't seem to support her. She crashes into a heap, paws slipping on a patch of grass that has not dried, sprinkling blood across her belly and chest as she lands. The fierce ache in her forehead has migrated straight to her heart, piercing it like a set of claws, and she scrabbles in the grass, trying to get back on her feet. Gravity is against her, though, not to mention her throbbing shoulder and the rising sensation of the urge to be sick. Everything spins for a merciful second, taking away the terrible view, but when Streamheart cries out, it all ricochets back into horrifying focus.

Stonetail can't look away, can't feel her paws, can't breathe. She simply stares, paws splayed out before her, claws plunging deep into the dirt, and prays that it is just a nightmare, a nightmare of the worst kind. But the pulsating ache in her shoulder is violent and all too real, and so the scene before her must also be real.

She is dimly aware of Streamheart pressing against her side, trying to bolster her upright again, but whatever the silver tabby has said reaches ears stuffed full of cotton. Trapped in a bubble, the outside world muffled, she crawls toward Thrushpaw, forgetting to cringe even when her pads are covered in sticky blood residue. This is the result of her training efforts. This is her failure. Thrushpaw was never ready to go into the forest alone because Stonetail never prepared her for it, not properly.

The medicine cat apprentice wears a deep gash from chin to belly, staining her white underbelly a dizzying scarlet, and Stonetail buries her muzzle in the crook of Thrushpaw's neck, heedless of the fur stiffened with blood. The lavender surrounding them chokes out any of the apprentice's scent, and all else is metallic and sanguine.

I let you down, Stonetail thinks, unable to get the words out. Where was she when this happened? Sleeping soundly in the medicine den? Staring at Thornwing's vigil? Or was she out chasing crowfood for nothing? Whatever the case, she was not _here_ when it happened. She was not here.

Streamheart lets her grieve until the sun comes up.


	17. INTERLUDE IV

After politely sitting Thornwing's vigil at Clay's insistence (his brother is adapting to Clan customs like a fish in a stream), Coal plans to take a long, restful nap. His brother, though, is still wide awake despite his lack of sleep, and the brown tabby tom paces back and forth in his nest. "I saw Streamheart go out last night, but she didn't come back. That isn't normal," he says.

"Maybe she wanted some privacy," Coal grunts, pulling his moss closer. Maybe, maybe there's enough to bury his head in it for some peace and quiet…and no such luck. The scraps, while significantly more abundant than the meager nest he was first afforded in ShadeClan, are not enough to block out Clay's anxious chatter. Nothing Coal says can soothe his brother's nerves, and Clay seems fresh out of ideas on how to distract himself. Not to mention he is clearly incapable of sleep.

"I'll go watch for her, then," Coal finally growls, flicking a small ball of moss at his brother's nose. "Get some sleep, and I'll come get you when she's back." With that, he stalks out of the den to lie beneath one of the pines. The needles aren't nearly as comfy as moss, but they make a soft enough bed, and the black tom positions himself to face the camp entrance, eyes half-lidded. He can feel himself dozing, breaking his promise to keep watch, but the camp is busy and Clay has energy. Sooner or later, Streamheart will return, and his brother will learn of it.

But it suddenly strikes Coal that Stonetail is absent, too. He has not seen her emerge from the medicine den, and her nest was cold from disuse when he entered the warriors' den after Thornwing's vigil. Craning his neck to peer past the elders performing the final death rites over Thornwing's golden form, Coal strains to see into the medicine den. From this angle, nothing is clear.

He does not have to wait long for an answer to his concern, though, as movement at the camp entrance catches his eye. Forcing himself into an upright position, he watches as a grey tabby backs slowly into the camp. It's Stonetail, of course, and beyond her, he can see Streamheart's head. They carry something between them, something heavy, and only when Coal rises to his feet, prepared to offer his help, does he see what they bear through the log tunnel.

Thrushpaw slumps to the ground between them, slit open from top to bottom.

Coal's vision swims. For a brief second, there is a raging river between him and Thrushpaw, whose pelt looks black as night. When she screams for him to run, to protect his brother, while Stonetail hovers over her with blazing yellow eyes, he whips his head around. His mother's voice seems to come from all sides, yet there is no one there, and when he looks back, he sees only plain Thrushpaw, flanked on either side by Streamheart and Stonetail as they lift her body again and solemnly approach the center of camp.

The wails begin to go up as more cats realize what the two warriors have brought home. They ease Thrushpaw's body to the ground next to her brother's, and Stonetail collapses beside the little apprentice with her head bowed. Streamheart says something to her friend, something inaudible, and turns away as if to head to Greystar's den, but Coal finds that he is already on his feet, then halfway there, then nodding and flicking his ears at the silver tabby to turn her back. "I'll tell her," he offers impulsively. "Go sit."

There is a second of hesitation on Streamheart's part, but she looks over her shoulder only once before deciding that right now, her place is beside her best friend. Coal sighs, avoids looking at Thrushpaw's wound, and hurries to Greystar's den, squeezing inside without announcing himself.

"There's an emergency," he says when Greystar's pale eyes lock onto him in the dark. "Thrushpaw is dead."

Silence fills the den, but the vague outline of Greystar rises, and she stares coolly at him, as if she is unmoved. Is that his imagination, though, or have her broad shoulders sagged? In the dark, with his eyes still adjusting, he cannot say for certain.

"And?" she asks when Coal does not move out of her way.

He hesitates, tail ducking between his legs, before dropping his gaze. The ShadeClan leader is difficult to look in the eye, especially with what he is about to say.

"And when you see what happened, I'd like to speak with you. In private."

After a long moment, Greystar nods and pushes past him to deal with the new tragedy. "Meet me back here," she says over her shoulder, "and we'll talk."

Coal doesn't bother to follow, instead taking a seat on the cool ground to wait, forgoing the moss pushed against the den's side. His stomach twists into knots, and he wishes in vain once again that moss could block out sound the moment Morningfur's anguished cries ring out.

"We stayed too long," he says to the empty den. And then he silently resolves to tell Greystar everything he knows. After that, it will be time to leave.


	18. XIII - IDENTITY

ShadeClan's activity is hidden somewhere beyond a pale haze. The rising sun rains down in pieces, illuminating one thing at a time, and a murmur rises into a crescendo before falling again and again in the background.

Stonetail wants none of it. She wants peace. She wants stillness. She wants the dark and the quiet so she can mourn without everyone's eyes passing over her hunched form. There is pity out there, hollow pity that is weightless next to the grief and fear snaking its way into every cat's heart, not that Stonetail can quite feel those things now. Beside Thrushpaw's body, even with Streamheart pressed close at her side, the grey warrior is rigid, face set into a stare that might kill a mouse on the spot. And she wants to kill. Her expression does not betray the desire, but she wants to find whoever murdered Thrushpaw (murdered! this is no accident, it cannot be, it cannot be, it cannot be…), and when she does, she wants to rip them in two. StarClan help their soul, whoever they are, because her revenge will not be swift. It will be slow, she promises herself, and it will be every bit the justice the small apprentice deserves, and then some. She failed Thrushpaw in training, but she won't fail her in death.

No matter the sympathies extended to her for the first hour or so, no matter the wailing from Morningfur and Grasspelt, no matter the gentle reassurances from Streamheart, Stonetail stubbornly remains unresponsive. When Robinfoot trudges out, ritual herbs clamped between his jaws, the grey warrior glances his way. After a fleeting moment of eye contact, they both decide to carry on as they were. Stonetail retreats behind her invisible wall, and the medicine cat sets about dressing the body with herbs, sans the lavender Thrushpaw never brought back, the lavender Stonetail can't bear to smell any longer. However, he pauses while placing the chervil and coltsfoot at Thrushpaw's feet. With trembling paws, he tugs at something between her claws only to crawl back with a horrified expression on his face as he peers at what he has discovered.

It is Robinfoot's wide-eyed stare that calls Stonetail back to full consciousness. His stance mirrors that of a cornered rabbit, all weak knees and trembling whiskers. "What?" she snaps, her first word since arriving in camp. But at that, Robinfoot drops his gaze and scampers off, leaving behind whatever he has discovered. He starts heading towards Greystar's den, but paralysis washes over him for a long moment. After that, he peels away to the medicine den, fur standing on end.

The harried actions, unusual even for Robinfoot's nervous nature, draw the attention of those closest to Thrushpaw's body, including Morningfur and Grasspelt. The golden queen, whose body looks heavy with the weight of loss and exhaustion, turns away, but her mate sniffs at the spot where Robinfoot stood moments ago. Squinting at the ground, he hooks a tuft of grey fur between his claws and lifts it up for all onlookers to see.

"What is it?" Streamheart asks softly, looking over Stonetail's shoulder to see what Grasspelt holds up. The older warrior does not answer immediately, studying the fur with intense concentration. Something eventually falls into place. With a long look at it, he sets the scrap down gingerly.

And then he tackles Stonetail, raking his claws down her side with an earth-shattering yowl.

She screeches, and suddenly everyone is watching as one of ShadeClan's senior warriors bears down on the leader's daughter, claws flashing in the sun. Even Streamheart, too dumbfounded by the sudden attack, is no help; she remains seated by the body, gaping at the fight with round blue eyes.

Left to defend herself all on her own, Stonetail does so. Grasspelt may be a Clanmate, but the moment his claws drew blood, that tie was cast aside. Spitting and rolling to her feet, pine needles adhering to her new wounds with sap and stinging like a thousand bitter wasps, Stonetail meets Grasspelt's next blow with a vicious headbutt to the stomach, dropping low and plowing straight ahead to catch him squarely. He flies back with a cry, but does not stay down for long. Hopping onto his feet again, ignoring his mate's confused cry, the brown tabby lunges, sinking his teeth into Stonetail's foreleg. Again she yowls, but now he's close. Operating on base instinct, she grabs hold of his scruff and shakes with all her might, eliciting a short choking noise as he fights against her pull to reassert his grip.

"Stop!" someone shouts, but neither warrior is willing, not when they're both seeing red and tasting blood. Baring her teeth, Stonetail doesn't wait for Grasspelt to strike again, instead leaping at him, tearing claws down his shoulder before he can twist free of her path.

"Are you going to kill me?" he shouts, spit flying. "Are you going to kill me like you killed my daughter?!"

It seems like everyone takes a collective breath, Stonetail included. Kill Thrushpaw? Why would she kill her? She didn't! She would never! But Grasspelt is a father blinded by the loss of his daughter, not to mention a skilled warrior. All he needs is an opening, and he gets it during that collective breath. With a screech fit to raise the dead, he barrels into Stonetail and pins her to the ground, claws diving into her shoulders. "Traitor!" he screams in her face, raising one paw.

She can see the coming strike as clear as day. Grasspelt wants like for like, and nothing will stop him from tearing Stonetail open, not now. Lost in the sequence of events, unsure of how it turned out this way and baffled by the empty and vague sense of disappointment filling her chest, she can only watch as his paw comes flying down. Hazily she wonders if she should kick, make use of that risky move she borrowed from Coal so many days ago, but her limbs lie in frozen shock, and still Grasspelt comes ever closer.

And then he is lying a tail-length away in the pine needles, Greystar towering over him with a paw flat on his chest. "Attack a Clanmate again," she says, "and I will not be so lenient." Her paw flexes, and though no one can see their leader's claws walking across the skin, beneath Grasspelt's fur, everyone knows they are there, _especially_ Grasspelt.

"Look at the fur!" he cries all the same. "Robinfoot pulled fur from between her claws, and it's Stonetail's!"

"It isn't," Streamheart shoots back, finally coming to her senses and inspecting the tuft of fur lying in the grass. "Did your nose run off with your common sense? This smells nothing like Stonetail!"

"I saw her leave by the dirtplace last night, and she never came back," Grasspelt continues to protest. "Who else had the chance?"

"And I was with her!" Streamheart storms over, barred only by Greystar's lashing tail and icy gaze. "We went looking for Thrushpaw because no one else did!"

"Who here has bloody paws and fresh wounds? I don't see anyone else!" Grasspelt insists, voice breaking.

"Enough!" Greystar barks over the rising din. The onlookers, who had begun to chatter and argue sides, fall silent, many looking at their paws shamefully. "Grasspelt, until the vigil, you are to stay with Morningfur at all times. After that, I want you out on patrol with Stormfoot and Darkfeather. Don't come back until you've cooled off." The grey leader allows Grasspelt to rise to his feet, but as he limps back to Morningfur's side, he curls his lip in disgust, glaring coldly at Stonetail.

"And you," growls Greystar, remembering her daughter. "Get cobwebs and marigold from Robinfoot, and then come meet me in my den. We need to talk."

What feels like a lifetime ago, those words would have been the prelude to a shouting match. However, Stonetail's skin crawls, and she forgets her wounds for a moment. There is no shouting match to be had here, and as she watches Greystar sniff at the mysterious fur only to recoil, she gets the creeping sense that this will be really will be a talk, and a heavy one at that.

Chin in the air, a hitch in her step from aching bite in her foreleg, Stonetail limps to the medicine den without looking back. On her way, she catches Featherstar sitting off to the side with her tail curled neatly around her paws. They stare at one another a moment, but the WillowClan leader breaks eye contact first, rising to her feet and heading to Greystar's den.

Whatever talk is going to occur once her wounds are treated, Stonetail is certain that it will not just be between herself and Greystar. And certain of that, she is certain of one other thing.

This will not just be about her fight. This, whatever _this_ is, it is far bigger.

She takes her herbs from trembling Robinfoot without a word, and marches back across camp to find out just how big a conversation Greystar wants to have.

»»««

Featherstar is still in the den when Stonetail arrives, and Greystar sits beside her secret sister, tail sweeping an arc through the moss as she fidgets. However, they are not the only ones waiting. Seated against the far side is Coal, and he lifts his head when the grey warrior pads inside. They nod to one another, and then Stonetail looks squarely at her mother as if no one else is there.

"I'm not a killer," she begins firmly, "but if Grasspelt attacks me again, that might change." Better to clear the air of that particular point now rather than later. The longer the idea festers, the easier it might be to believe, and that will only hinder their already rocky conversations.

"It had better not," Greystar growls in reply, "but that isn't the point."

"No? Then what is? I know it isn't a heart-to-heart." She almost adds "because you haven't got one," but that would be foolish, and Stonetail is finding she lacks the energy for foolishness today. Everything she has, she resolves, is going towards sharpening her claws and finding answers. It's for Thrushpaw, she reasons, and that's a good enough reason.

After a moment, Stonetail realizes that the silence of the den is not the imperious kind, meant to shame her into quiet so Greystar can speak. It is not the kind that signals the calm before the storm, a preamble to their shouting matches. Looking back and forth between Greystar and Featherstar, she presses, "Well?"

And it is a silence of hesitation she has broken.

"We know you didn't kill her." Where Greystar seems unable to find the words, Featherstar smoothly steps in. "There are plenty of cats with grey fur, and even then, it's not your scent."

Stonetail pins her ears back and falls back on her haunches, wincing when she lands. The cobweb bindings on her wounds slip. "So if this isn't about Thrushpaw, then…" She allows the question to hang in the den's heavy air.

"Except it is." Coal finally chooses to speak. "You didn't kill her, but we know who did. I…I knew as soon as I saw what happened." He crosses his paws, tail coiled tight around them, and avoids anyone's gaze. "That's how my mother died. Chin to tail."

The two leaders must have already heard this information because they do not stare at Coal like he has grown another tail from the center of his forehead. Stonetail, however, can't bring herself to look away. A hundred questions blossom on the tip of her tongue, but in their race to escape, they tangle up and fizzle out, leaving the grey warrior staring at the loner, fighting to keep her jaw from dropping.

Coal looks up at her for a heartbeat. "He had grey fur," he says. "And now he's here."

She had almost forgotten the day Coal and Clay arrived, seeking shelter. They had been running away from a murderer, hiding in the hopes that he might pass them by. Clearly, the killer has not.

Suddenly Stonetail wants to shout. Her throat is raw from holding in every bitter emotion, but she can't bring herself to care about that pain. Thrushpaw is dead because two unfortunate loners chose her Clan as their sanctuary. "You brought him here," she says hoarsely, glaring at the black tom. "He followed you." It goes unsaid, but the accusation in her voice is unmistakable: _it is your fault_.

And so Greystar speaks, finally. "If you want someone to blame–"

Stonetail cuts her off. "What? Blame myself? Blame how I taught Thrushpaw?" Her voice cracks. "What do you think I've been doing since I found her?" Feeling immediately that this talk is a mistake, she moves as if to leave, only to catch Featherstar's eye. The white she-cat shakes her head almost imperceptibly. In the dim light, her green eyes are washed out, but the gravity in her gaze keeps Stonetail from storming out and returning to her numb haze at Thrushpaw's side.

Greystar clears her throat, not to command attention, but as if she cannot find a particular word. Then she says softly, "Blame me."

"Blame…you?" Despite the fact that Stonetail has blamed her mother for a great many things in her life, it immediately feels like a foreign concept. What is she to blame Greystar for? Offering Coal and Clay shelter from their parents' killer on her own daughter's advice, born of spite? If so, Stonetail will not. She is the root of that decision. It is not Greystar's responsibility to claim, nor is it to be used as a feeble attempt at consolation.

The grey warrior sighs shakily. The swings between despair and rage are wearing on her. This meeting is doing nothing but sapping what little is left of her energy. Yet, for some reason, she stays.

"Blame me," Greystar confirms. "This cat may be after Coal and Clay, but it is my fault that he knows ShadeClan well enough to kill in our own territory. That is…solely on me.

"The cat who did this is named Torch," says Greystar, an icy edge returning to her voice. "When I was first made leader, after Flowerstar disappeared, he moved onto the ShadeClan borders, staying out of the way. No one knew he existed for moons; he was quiet and careful, and his scent was weak. He was only discovered when I went on a solo hunt and walked right into him. We were scared, and we fought, but he was skinny and he knew I was strong. He surrendered quickly.

"I didn't tell anyone about him. I assumed he had learned his lesson and moved on after getting a beating, but I was wrong. He started to show himself more often, always just barely escaping the patrols. Windfur, Thrushpaw's grandfather and the cat I would choose as deputy when Wrenheart died, came the closest to catching him. They once traded blows before Torch ran off again, and he wasn't seen for two moons. In that time, Wrenheart died in a raid and I chose Windfur to guide me."

Greystar eases herself to the ground, stretching out into a more comfortable position. She looks tense, though, and coupled with Featherstar's obvious unease beside the ShadeClan leader, the den seems to close in a little. The walls press gently at Stonetail's back as if to push her closer to her mother's tale as the older grey tabby continues.

"He came back, though, and when he did, he was different. He still enjoyed teasing the patrols, which forced me to search for him myself, but he was more focused. The lazy quality that made him feel harmless was gone, and he was no longer twig thin. He also had a small scar on his cheek. A burn scar, he said, because he'd gotten too close to a fire once." Curling her lip, she growls, "It's a shame he hadn't gotten any closer."

"You didn't know that then," interrupts Featherstar.

Coal ducks his head and swallows hard.

"I wish I had. I would have finished what the fire started, but I was a mousebrain instead. I took pity on him, on that scar, and promised to bring him healing herbs if he promised to stay out of ShadeClan's way, which he did for a while. But that was my mistake. I trusted him. I tried to be benevolent and different than my mother, so I allowed him to stay just outside the borders without fear of persecution. This went on for half a moon, him hiding, me bring herbs to help his scar. I got them myself. I lied to Robinfoot and pretended to take herbs for my pregnancy. After that, after the kitting, it…got worse."

There is no way to ease into the rest of the tale. Greystar's voice empties of everything but vitriol, and her claws sink into the moss underfoot. Stonetail finds herself poised to recoil in the event that her mother lashes out, even though she knows Greystar is more precise and controlled than that. There's something in the pale leader's posture that sings with taut, harsh energy.

"He killed Windfur."

From there, all but spitting, Greystar tells her sister, her daughter, and unobtrusive Coal the story of Torch's fall from her graces. She tells them of his radical shift in behavior, his possessive streak, the way he thought himself king of the small patch of territory he was so generously allowed and then some. It was his pride, his arrogance, Greystar explains, that ruined the fragile peace. Where Torch had once been an odd but somewhat endearing cat, he transformed into something mighty and ugly, something that grasped at more than his lot in life afforded him, and only when he sailed clear past his boundaries did it become clear that something ought to be done. Windfur's death, performed less surgically than Thrushpaw's but with similar intent, was violent, forceful, gruesome.

Here Greystar falters, as does her anger. Something more hesitant replaces it. "Windfur did not need to die," she says. "He died on nothing more than a rumor because I made the same mistake as my mother. I kept quiet."

Featherstar shakes her head. "The mistake Flowerstar made was not the same. Her mistake was one of oversight." For the benefit of Stonetail and Coal, both of whom she assumes know nothing about the leaders' sisterhood (in Coal's case, she is right), she looks to them and says, "Flowerstar had Greystar by a forest rogue. She never named the father, and never led any cat to believe it was one tom or another. She also had me by a WillowClan tom, and repeated the process. Her mistake was in allowing us to believe our Clans in that pure blood makes a warrior. When we learned we were far from pure-blooded, we had nothing to protect ourselves from self-loathing. We had to keep secrets."

In the pause, Stonetail chances a look back at the loner tom. He was not born with the stigma of tainted blood hovering over his head, whispered behind his back by nosy elders. A mild interest flickers in his eyes as he recognizes the severity of the situation, but on the whole, he appears nonplussed by the potential for scandal. Stonetail wishes she could feel the same. There is a squirming in her gut, though, alongside the uncomfortable sensation with knowing that her grandmother chose forbidden lovers, with knowing that her lineage is not the straight and narrow descent she once perceived it to be. When she first discovered Greystar and Featherstar were sisters, it had troubled her, but now, to have it spoken to her face and laid bare and free, her unease is mounting.

Trying to catch up with the twisting conversation, to follow it back to its source, Stonetail scrunches up her muzzle and picks at a clump of dirt caught between her claws. The talk of mixed blood has nothing to do with Torch murdering Windfur. Windfur. "Why did Windfur die, then?" she asks, latching onto the solid ground the question affords.

"Jealousy," Greystar replies. "He died because Torch was jealous and petty."

"About?" Stonetail presses. But Greystar hangs her head, as if something in Torch's envy is unspeakable.

"This is the mistake I meant. My mother's mistake," she mutters. "I tried so hard not to be like her, and yet I don't see the difference anymore."

For a second, the den is absolutely silent. All eyes are on Greystar, who looks so _small_ in the dark. This is not the hardened leader any of them know. This is something much more vulnerable, built from the ground up by a heady mixture of desire, regret, and frustration. She lifts her head slowly.

"Stonetail," she says, "I don't expect you to forgive me for much, but when I said to blame me for this, I meant it. If I had made just one different choice, then things would have been so different." Looking to Coal, she adds, "And I'm sorry I didn't do what I should have. Maybe it would have protected your parents and spared you all the running.

"Torch killed Windfur because he believed Windfur was your father, Stonetail. I should have told you this sooner, given you something to protect yourself with."

"Protect myself from what?" Stonetail asks, though her throat is parched and her heart seems to have stopped. She knows. The pieces have aligned, a warped constellation never meant to hang in the night sky. It was not meant to be this way, and yet it is. If it had gone any differently, she would not even be alive to know the truth, and the brothers would have never lost so much so early. Windfur would not have died. _Thrushpaw_ would not have died.

But she is alive, and the brothers have lost much. Windfur is dead, and Thrushpaw is, too. Revulsion and horror and bloodlust mingle in her knotted gut, but Stonetail cannot, absolutely _cannot_ , be at all surprised when Greystar says, "Torch killed the cat he thought was the father. He had no idea that he _was_ the father.

"I'm sorry."


	19. XIV - RANCOR

No one stops her as she leaves. Trying to understand it all at once is like trying to wrestle a badger into submission. Stonetail is already worn thin, but this has just pressed her thinner.

She limps out of the camp, feeling curious eyes rove across her back. Despite the worried glances, she proceeds forward, taking measured steps through the hollow log entrance. Wood creaks underfoot, and the springy moss clings to her pads. She presses on through the pine needle beds of the forest, but going far is not an option. Her fresh wounds from Grasspelt sting fiercely underneath their poorly administered dressings, and if there is trouble, she wants to be in range of help.

Frustratingly, that range includes her mother.

What had Greystar been thinking? What in StarClan possessed her to mate outside the Clan, to a murderer no less? Stonetail settles to groom herself with harsh, quick strokes that scrape the skin more than clean her coat.

She feels dirty.

The nagging itch at the base of her tail is just her imagination, she tells herself. It's just stress, not proof of tainted blood. If it were her lineage, the itch would have presented itself long ago. Still, it's difficult to shake the notion that something under the surface is unclean, infected. Just to be safe, she gives in to the urge to scratch, nipping and gnawing at the afflicted area. Twisted around in this manner, she spies Featherstar approaching from the corner of her eye.

The Willowclan leader is alone. "Can we talk?" she asks from a few paces away. A safe distance. A wise distance.

"About?" Stonetail grunts. "This is Greystar's business, not yours."

But Featherstar takes a seat anyway. "My sister is useless when it comes to tact, and you and I both know that the last thing you need is for her to be out here too."

"Did she send you?"

"No."

"Then why come?"

"Because I understand." The two she-cats lock eyes. Featherstar does not flinch from Stonetail's hollow stare, and continues steadily. "It might not be the same situation, but I at least understand the shock. We grew up learning mixed blood is something to be ashamed of, which is a load of fox dung. It makes borders and wars more complicated, but it doesn't dictate your life. Or your character."

Stonetail curls her lip, thinking of the rainy day when she spoke with Lakewhisker about Greystar's expectations. About feeling like she was being tested to see if she was really a leader's daughter. All along, Greystar was probably testing to see if she was a killer's daughter instead. "She thought I'd be like him," the grey warrior growls. "She always has. That's why she wants so much out of me. All she ever does is test me!" And is that not dictating her life enough?

Featherstar drops her head. "I'm not going to pretend to know what it's been like, having my sister for a mother. I'm not going to pretend I know why she treats you like she does, either. That's for you two to sort through."

"Then what good are you doing here?"

"I'm trying to have a reasonable conversation," Featherstar snaps, flicking her tail before recovering her composure. "After this is sorted out–no, I don't mean Greystar; just wait–you two can argue all you like. For now, though, I want to know if you can sort yourself out long enough to get rid of Torch once and for all."

"Once and for all" is a phrase found in elders' tales of their glory days. It's only half as certain as it sounds, half as true as old cats pretend. No sane cat will stake their life on so flimsy a promise when there are more definite avenues available.

But Stonetail wants it. For Thrushpaw, she tells herself when doubt creeps into her heavy heart. She will spill blood for Thrushpaw, any blood, even the blood of her father if that's what it takes. Giving up on the itch at the base of her tail, she stares squarely at Featherstar. "Tell me what you're thinking," she says, "because I want him dead."

Featherstar purrs, though without joy. "If all works well, he will be _very_ dead."

»»««

Coming up with a plan requires explaining what has already failed. For the sake of privacy, Stonetail and Featherstar return to camp, taking the temporary WillowClan den for themselves. "Go make yourselves useful," the white she-cat commands upon entering. Three of her warriors that have remained in the den share skeptical looks at the request. What does their leader want with this ShadeClan warrior anyway? But they acquiesce when promised free run of the den in just a short while.

Once alone, Featherstar admits WillowClan ought to have left already. "Greystar suspected Torch from the beginning," she explains. "The burnt reeds leading to camp from the willow meant someone helped the fire get its start, and when we couldn't find a scent, she blamed him. Apparently he told her what his scar was from after he killed Windfur, while bragging. He likes fire." She shakes her head somberly before moving on.

"We split up the Clan for space reasons at first, but after seeing the damage, we realized it had another advantage: bait."

"Bait?" Stonetail's eyes widen. "Are you telling me you used your Clan as bait?" she hisses. Perhaps Featherstar is not so upright a cat as she seems. The accusation, however, leaves the leader undeterred.

"Only because each half now has the strength of another whole Clan behind it for protection. Besides, we wanted to be sure it was Torch, and assumed the attacks would be closer and closer to Greystar if it was him, ignoring anyone else. If not, if WillowClan was the real target, BreezeClan would be attacked, too. But Thrushpaw proved us right, StarClan bless her poor soul."

For the most part, Stonetail can believe that, but she thinks of the BreezeClan fox. "There was a trail," she says. "The fox was deliberate. BreezeClan _was_ attacked."

"But there was no fire? No deaths?"

"No," Stonetail confirms after a second of hesitation.

Featherstar shakes her head. "Then I doubt it was Torch. Foxes are unpredictable, and from Greystar's account, he likes to be in control. Variables are dangerous."

But so are unexplained trails of crowfood. With a jolt, Stonetail realizes she and Streamheart never got a chance to tell anyone about the second prey trail meandering through ShadeClan. "If the trail wasn't Torch," she says, "then we have another problem. Someone left a trail in our territory last night. Streamheart and I destroyed it while we were looking for…" Aloud, the name hurts. She nods instead toward the center of camp before unloading every detail she can possibly recall onto WillowClan's leader, especially the conclusion she and Streamheart drew about the trail being a diversion meant to expose the camp. Featherstar, to her credit, does not interrupt, but her expression darkens rapidly, taking on the appearance of a gathering storm.

"So Torch is out to get Greystar and those loners, and someone else is wasting prey to waste our time… For what, though?"

It's a good question. What indeed? Why take such risks in two different territories? Why involve foxes and crowfood? There must be a point to it, no matter how awful a point it may be.

"Let's come back to it," Stonetail decides. "Stick with Torch. Him first." Deal with one crisis, then worry about the next. Though removing two threats at once would be ideal, Stonetail fears splitting the Clan's resources is unwise.

Even more unwise than that, she thinks, is using Coal and Clay as bait.

"Absolutely not," she says before Featherstar has even finishing suggesting it. "We're not throwing them back into the middle of it, not like that."

"They'll be prepared," replies Featherstar. "They won't be caught by surprise when he takes the bait."

"They'll be on their own, fighting their parents' killer. Walking into his claws. Hardly fair."

"So we send a second party to shadow them until Torch makes a move. They won't be alone, and Torch will be outnumbered. He won't stand much of a chance in a fight like that."

Stonetail grits her teeth. "The numbers aren't enough. Not when shadowing patrols would have to rest and rotate. Find one cat in ShadeClan besides Streamheart and I that will actually want to protect them instead of leaving them for dead. Unless you want to explain to everyone why Torch is hunting Greystar, the Clan will only think Coal and Clay are getting special treatment that they don't deserve." She can't even begin to imagine ShadeClan's collective spite if the brothers were to be put under such a particular guard. The chances of them being driven out or abandoned to Torch's mercy seem to grow before her very eyes. She cannot take any more loss, and with a bitter pang, she suddenly realizes she's come to take the loners' company for granted. But even if they survive Torch's menace, they might still leave ShadeClan behind. It is a preferable way to part compared to death, but Stonetail still grapples with a new, rising dread. Must they go?

Featherstar's hard insistence on a trap calls Stonetail back to the present. "The safest way to handle this will be to trick him. Make him complacent, make him think he's won or come close, then finish the job at once before he can retaliate."

"Except that still takes cats prepared to lay their lives down if something goes wrong, unless you can set a trap that you and I alone can deal with the moment it's sprung, no matter when that is. Waiting for him like you want to means that everyone in camp has to know, or someone could be caught like a vole in a hole. And you know what happens to that vole."

"So we go to him."

Both Featherstar and Stonetail jump as Greystar slips into the den. ShadeClan's leader avoids lingering eye contact with her daughter as she takes a seat by the den's entrance. "We three can search for him without involving anyone else, and he'll be outnumbered."

"And how do you suggest we find him?" Featherstar asks politely, though the sharp twitch of her whiskers is not terribly hard to miss. She casts a sideways look at Stonetail as if to check that the grey tabby has not stalked off before continuing. "You did say he was difficult to scent back in the day."

"We have his fur," Greystar says, "and he had to clean the blood from his paws at some point. There should be a blood trail from the lavender meadow to whatever water he went to. We can start with that."

The pale leader glances at Stonetail, but the warrior resolutely looks away, instead staring at Featherstar with hard eyes. It's grating to finally be in agreement of procedure with her mother when she's never wanted less to do with the stern she-cat, but a bubble of relief pops in her chest, allowing her some ease; Featherstar must acknowledge a plan that does not risk the lives of other cats, faced with two similar ideas as she is now. Coal and Clay will be safe.

Tensely the three she-cats wait for someone to muster their courage and break the silence. Stonetail's fur prickles as if lightning will rip through the air at any moment, and it takes every ounce of her self-control not to indulge in the itch at the base of her tail again. Something has to give, but it will not be her.

However, it will be Featherstar, who is still in possession of a diplomat's good sense, at least to a point. "We have to give the Clans a reason for leaving camp together," she says. "A mixed Clan, mixed rank hunting party will look unusual. Suspicious, really."

"Then I'll go alone," Greystar replies without missing a beat.

"And if you don't come back? ShadeClan will want answers. That puts us in a bad position." Featherstar gestures to Stonetail with a flick of her ear to include the grey warrior. "We'll either have to lie to two Clans and risk being found out, or tell the truth and face the backlash for not speaking sooner, not to mention for letting you go alone. I'm not keen on either option.

"Besides," the white leader adds, "you owe your daughter something important."

"Which is?" But Greystar and Stonetail finally look at one another, and ShadeClan's leader must know what she owes. She cannot possibly be mistaken. But just in case, Stonetail clears it up for her.

"Blood," she growls. "Torch's blood." And she doesn't just want the first strike. Stonetail wants the last one, too, and every other one in between. She wants the grass to shimmer with it, the dirt to soak it up and guard it for ages to come. Greystar made her mistakes. Lives were lost because she did not make the choice to end Torch, but Stonetail will not repeat her mother's folly. "I want him dead," she goes on. "And I want to leave him for the crows."

If Greystar is surprised by her daughter's vehemence, she does not show it. Instead, slowly, she inclines her head. "First blood is yours," she agrees.

"And last blood," Stonetail argues.

Greystar hesitates, but eventually replies, "And last blood."

Outside, a sudden downpour punches holes in the dirt. The sky is still blue.

»»««

The unusual storm abandons clear skies soon, trading them for a mantle of deep grey that sweeps over the earth with astounding speed, plunging the world into a damp darkness. It is because of this torrent that Stonetail is not in the forest in pursuit of Torch's trail. The rain is too heavy to see through, let alone scent through, and so she is curled up tight in the warriors' den.

Originally she had tried to take refuge in the medicine den, but Robinfoot had barred her way. "Morningfur is inside," he had told her, whiskers trembling, and Stonetail had understood the warning well enough. Morningfur was inside with the body of her daughter, whose burial is now postponed thanks to the storm, and at some point, Grasspelt will come back. Stonetail had no desire to tangle with the brown tabby again, and left the medicine cat standing on the threshold of his den as rain rushed at him, carried by a cruel wind.

Now, she has company, though it is frigid. Her Clanmates look at her sideways, glancing at her wounds from the fox, her wounds from Grasspelt, her bloodstained paws that will not wash clean because she cannot bear the taste of iron in her mouth anymore. Darkfeather in particular seems distrustful as she lies in her nest, glaring at her fellow warrior. The fur along her spine lifts in jagged spikes, and if there are any words on the tip of the formidable she-cat's tongue, they are not ones of praise, that is for sure. Stonetail puts her back to Darkfeather with little fanfare, but that leaves only the wall to stare at, provided she does not look down at her outstretched, bloodied paws. But she can't avoid that. They have a grim magnetism that turns her stomach over in knots, and for a minute, she almost believes Grasspelt's heated accusations that she killed Thrushpaw. Indirectly, didn't she? Thrushpaw's blood is on her paws in more than one sense, and the grey warrior isn't sure what sense is worse.

Brimming with frustration, she tosses and turns while the rain gets worse, until finally someone kicks a moss scrap at her and tells her to let everyone else rest. Only half paying attention, too exhausted to argue, she slinks out of the den and into the downpour, the rain pressing her fur flat to her back in seconds. Looking thinner than ever, she drops herself beneath one of the pines in camp only to find that she has chosen a space that is already occupied.

Coal has an uncanny way of holding so still as to be a mere shadow across the ground, and the darkness of the storm has only made him more successful. Stonetail does not notice him until she accidentally treads on his tail, and which point he leaps up with a start and she takes a hurried step back.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "Didn't see you."

But Coal doesn't reply, instead lying down again in the wet needles and tucking his nose under his tail without a word. He stares at the empty camp almost as if staring through it, and Stonetail hesitates to settle down so close by. But there are few other places in the camp that are dry, and she sees no other option. Heaving a sigh, she curls up a tail-length and some away from the skinny black tom, a shiver running through her body as the wind rises, taking the pine in its grasp and giving it a vigorous shake.

"You need to stay," Stonetail suddenly finds herself saying. Looking over at Coal, she discovers his ears pricked her way, and the fur at the nape of his neck is standing on end. She gets the sense that he'll bolt off if she says another word in the wrong manner. But there is no right manner for this, and she plows ahead. "If Streamheart and I aren't around, Lakewhisker will stand up for you and your brother. Besides, if Torch is here, it's no good running. He either follows right away or destroys everyone here before following. You might as well hold your ground."

Coal looks distinctly uncomfortable with that kind of confrontation. "We have to leave," he argues softly, lifting his muzzle from behind his tail and digging shallow grooves in the dirt with his good paw. "It's better for everyone."

"ShadeClan's already in too deep. Don't try to be the hero."

"I wasn't."

"Or a martyr."

And he doesn't respond to that, not directly. Instead, he looks at her. He doesn't meet her eyes, which he hasn't been doing for days now, but stares at the tip of her ears, a close enough substitute. "He won't quit. He hasn't for moons."

"He'll quit when he's dead," Stonetail mutters, curling her lip. "He'll quit then."

For a long moment, Coal actually meets her eyes unblinkingly, his ears pinned flat against his head and whiskers drooping. Then a shudder rolls through him and he shakes his head, melancholy incarnate.

Knowing when she's being ignored, Stonetail inches closer to the exposed center of camp until she can scrub her paws in the heavy rain. Slowly her paws become grey again, albeit a damp, dark grey, and her white toes are freed from the cloying scent of death. Beneath her feet, the dirt takes on a faint, rusty hue before the storm dilutes it back to its rich brown. If only removing Torch were so easy as washing him away, she thinks, but it will not be that easy. It will be phenomenally difficult, if Greystar's tale is anything to go by, and she will need all her strength for it.

"Mousebrain," she snaps to herself. With her paws hanging out in the storm, rain splashing up into her face when the wind twists, she's liable to give herself a cold. Coal probably won't fare much better, either, even as close to the pine's trunk as he is. The air is still bitterly cold for greenleaf. Without explaining herself, Stonetail nudges the black tom to his feet and propels him toward the warriors' den. Only when she sees him drop into his tightly constructed nest does she leave once more. He doesn't stop her from going.

When Robinfoot meets her again at the mouth of his den, she barges past him and lies down beside Thrushpaw, ignoring Morningfur's presence entirely. This, she realizes, is her last chance to spend time with her former apprentice, because the moment the storm lets up, Thrushpaw will be carried away by the elders for burial, and Stonetail will charge into the forest claws first to find the little tabby's killer. That will be their final parting, and with this and this alone on her mind, Stonetail falls into a blank sleep, brought on and extended by sheer exhaustion. She dreams of nothing but the dark, which envelops her in vast black wings and carries her away somewhere peaceful and stagnant. It is the long rest that, up until now, she had not realized she needed so desperately.

As such, she does not wake when Thrushpaw is finally carried away, nor when Robinfoot begins reordering his supplies around her. Only something impossible could rouse her, and when she finally lifts her head, she hears a voice she did not expect to hear on ShadeClan lands again. It takes her a dreadfully long moment to place the voice, to name it, but when she does, all drowsiness flees her body, replaced by thunder surging through her veins. She lunges past the cold spot where Thrushpaw had been, emerging under the overcast sky, and falls short of taking another step, greeted by a sight that makes her stomach do all manner of acrobatics.

There is Mothmoon standing before Greystar's den, pleading for help with a voice raspier than an elder's. This time, though, she has brought BreezeClan and WillowClan both. Not a cat among them is not stained black and grey with soot, even the youngest kits, and borne in the center of the ragged cluster are the bodies, fur plastered close with mud and rain.

The dead number six. They are hard to recognize in their poor condition, but as Stonetail creeps closer to the ragged cats, she begins to pick out faint scents and familiar faces. Crookedfoot, of course, is easy to identify. His twisted paw hangs limply over Cloudwing's side, and the black-and-white deputy bears her former medicine cat alone, head bowed. Behind her, Troutfang and Pikefang carry Bouncefoot, and to their left, a BreezeClan warrior named Tawnyfeather holds another she-cat named Brindlepelt upright so that her legs do not slide out from beneath her. There are a couple other still forms that Stonetail cannot see clearly, but towards the center of the group, a large tom named Hawkwing shoulders the heaviest burden of all. It makes Stonetail's blood boil and surge, ready to spill out into the world. She glowers at the entrance to Greystar's den, where the barest edge of a grey muzzle can be seen poking out from beneath the Great Timber.

Harestar is dead, BreezeClan smells like smoke, and there can only be one cat to blame.

Stonetail turns her back on the huddled outsiders and marches into the warriors' den. Someone has to put an end to this. She just needs a little help.


	20. XV - CHOICE

The names of the dead are called loudly to the rising stars. "Harestar, Grasswhisker, Foxtail, Hazelnose, Shortpelt, and Swiftfeather," recites Brackenheart, coughing between syllables. The smoke has left his eyes red-rimmed and his voice cracked as if with age even though he is a young cat. Between the fire and the bout of sickness that swept through BreezeClan's camp, the medicine cat is feeble, a poor last bastion of the shattered Clan's hierarchy. Beside him sits Mothmoon, lending her shoulder as a support for his tired head to rest on when he finishes. On the ginger-and-white she-cat's other side stands Featherstar with her whiskers drooping but her tail standing high in the air to construct a weak façade of strength.

"Crookedfoot and Bouncefoot," she adds to the list. Brackenheart bursts into another hacking fit, and the WillowClan's leader continues. "You were all honorable cats, worthy of no less than long lives. Those taken from you, we offer you memory. We offer legacy. In the moons to come, you will not be forgotten."

It's a wonderful speech, built like a faint bubble rising from the streambed. One faulty touch, and its pearlescent surface will break, sending forth a burst of barely contained emotion. But where is this speech for Thrushpaw and Thornwing? Stonetail turns her back on the ceremony the moment cats begin to congregate around the bodies once more to offer their last condolences. Camp is crowded, filled well beyond capacity with cats from all three Clans crowded into too-small dens and under pine trees whose boughs just don't stretch wide enough. There is not enough room to support so many cats, nor is there enough prey on ShadeClan lands to provide for all.

"We need to make sure their camp is safe to return to," Stonetail growls to Coal and Streamheart, who both sit facing her. Coal shifts uncomfortably in the wet pine needles, unsticking a few from his pads, but Streamheart holds still as stone.

"You want to go to BreezeClan without permission?" she asks, head cocked to the side. Her squint is slight, calculated. "Last time I suggested something like that, you nearly had a fit."

"Last time, there was only one fire and we didn't have to support all three Clans," Stonetail replies. She casts a short glance over her shoulder and continues. "And this time someone is killing cats. WillowClan caught fire, BreezeClan got sick, we lost cats, and then another fire happens? I don't know how this is happening, not exactly, but I don't like the pattern. What happens when ShadeClan is next? Where do we all go if the pines burn?"

"Don't say that," Coal says softly, but Stonetail narrows her eyes at him. He knows what she wants out of this. Reclaiming the camp for ShadeClan alone is just a bonus if the rest of the territories can be deemed safe. The real goal, the _only_ real goal, is to tear Torch apart as painfully as possible. Surely the skinny loner can understand that. Hasn't he ever wrestled with revenge? Surely he must have, if only because Clay is too benign to harbor a petty grudge, let alone a death sentence.

But Streamheart reclaims Stonetail's attention. The grey tabby has forgotten to account for her best friend's shrewdness, and in her haste, has no story to explain away her fervor. "You said 'not exactly,'" the silver tabby points out. "That's more than nothing, and you wouldn't be doing this unless it were really more than nothing. Tell me the rest."

There is a decision to be made here. Stonetail hesitates. Verity is a virtue worth a thousand stars in the sky, but is it worth the judgment from her best friend? There is no telling how Streamheart will take to confessions of soiled blood and leaders with cracks in their hearts as wide across as a river. She was raised to scorn mixed blood just as much as Stonetail was, and the grey warrior cannot possibly trust stigma to retract its razor-sharp claws from the friendship she has with Streamheart. There is so much damage that could be done.

She tells the truth, but only part of it.

"It's the cat who killed their parents," she says, dropping her voice as Stormfoot passes behind them on his way to pay his respects to the dead. She nods at Coal, then takes a heartbeat to search for Clay. To her surprise, he is at the edge of the mourners, sitting quietly with Redpaw and an unfamiliar WillowClan apprentice at his side. When Mistpaw lopes up to slump against the ruddy tabby's back, it becomes clear that he is acting as a pillar of support for the younger cats, who are no doubt shaken by the recent events. Where his infinite kindness stems from, Stonetail is not sure, and she turns her back once more. "He's here, and he killed Thrushpaw."

Ears pinned back, she feeds Streamheart a half-truth, a lie of omission. She reveals Coal's revelation, how he recognized the wound on Thrushpaw's belly, along with anything else she can recall regarding the loners' parents. But she leaves out anything to do with Torch, Windfur, or Greystar. Pretending they're worth less than a mouse tail makes it easier to channel her focus into vengeance without losing some of her drive to runoffs of fear and shame and guilt. "That's three cats he's killed, Thrushpaw and their parents," she finishes. "And he's out there."

"This is just you gunning for blood, isn't it?" Streamheart wrinkles her nose. "It isn't about putting the Clans back in their homes again at all."

"If we catch this cat, all the Clans will be safe. It's just one way of doing it. But I need your help. I can't go alone."

"It's selfish," says Streamheart, "and reckless."

"Giving and cautious didn't save Thrushpaw, and I don't see anyone else here who will take a break from mourning and actually do something." The grey warrior stamps her foot against the ground, scattering pine needles. "We can't sit! Not unless we want someone else to die." With this, she looks pointedly at Coal as he opens his mouth, perhaps to reveal the full extent of Torch's goals. It is meant to caution him from exposing a truth that deserves no more attention than it has already had. However, Streamheart seems to read it as a grim prediction, and her gaze flickers over Stonetail's shoulder, presumably to Clay and his tired band of apprentices.

"We should go now," the silver tabby says, "before anyone knows we're missing."

Together, they trickle into the dirtplace. Together, they disappear into the wood.

»»««

The scent of smoke and death is pungent, lifting from the earth and into the air by the dampness of the storm, now past. The trail by which BreezeClan and its guests traveled is marked clearly by the acrid stench, a definite path to follow straight into the belly of the beast. Though it wreaks havoc on her nose, bringing her close to retching, Stonetail resolutely follows it. Any cat who opts to follow her small hunting party will first have to distinguish their scent from the other, stronger smells that fill the air.

And does she not lead a hunting party? Her claws are keen for a taste of blood. Streamheart's are less enthusiastic, but twice as steady, if not more so. If fury goes to Stonetail's head, she can trust the silver tabby to intervene with a cool conscience.

But then there is the question of Coal, who lacks the zeal that propels Stonetail's every step. She can't comprehend it. After so many moons of running, this is his chance to confront the cat who stole a loving life out from under his feet. Where is the desire for revenge? Where is the bloodlust and adrenaline? Maybe time has tempered it, weathered down to a flat little pebble worth nothing but a heavy heart. She will not wait that long, though, for her rage to subside. Killing Torch must happen now, or it will never happen. Greystar is proof enough of that.

The three cats lope along in silence, using tail signals to convey anything of interest to one another, though there is little worth sharing on the trail of ash-drenched death. It's almost as if the fire followed BreezeClan into the heart of ShadeClan, leaving an air of scorched stillness in its wake. The grass may be green and sparkling with raindrops not yet reclaimed by the sun, but everything still feels lifeless.

The silence gets to Coal first. "They listed more cats than bodies," he suddenly says, padding along just behind Streamheart and Stonetail, who stride ahead in tandem.

"Grasswhisker died trying to get Swiftfeather out of the camp," answers Streamheart. Clearly she has paid more attention to the mourners.

Coal huffs a short assent, pauses, and then observes, "BreezeClan had more casualties."

This may be due to the geography of the camp, Stonetail reasons. If she recalls correctly from their herb-bearing visit, WillowClan was situated close to the camp exit, whereas the other dens were spread around a wide ring. The hills on most sides of the camp are steep, too, the grey warrior remembers. Climbing a hill in rising smoke is enough to fell even the heartiest of cats, so most would have taken the lowest path out. Brusquely, she voices this thought, and receives another of Coal's short grunts for the trouble.

They reach the border without further conversation, though Streamheart's sideways looks speak for themselves quite well. "Are you sure about this?" one glance says. Another is brimming with accusation, something along the lines of, "I know you left something out." But the silver tabby lends no voice to these looks, and Stonetail absently worries that she's imagining it out of guilt. She has lied, and to her best friend. And for what? Stubbornly she tries to tell herself that it was for the best. It's protection. Keeping her parentage quiet is safer than trying to control the spread of a secret.

But Coal knows. He knows everything now. Stonetail looks back at him and grimaces. If he tells Clay, there will be no secrets at all, but doesn't he have the sense to keep his brother out of the loop? Yet Clay comes first in Coal's life, that there is no contest over. Maybe he'll tell. Maybe not. It's impossible to be certain. The grey warrior can't make heads or tails out of Coal's guarded demeanor, and with a sigh, she pushes it out of her mind for another time. At this point, the border is more important.

Leaping across the stream that divides the two territories, Stonetail notices first that the grass underfoot is still springy and damp. "The fire didn't get this far," she says.

"Maybe the storm put it out quickly," suggests Streamheart, sniffing at the tamped down path that marks BreezeClan and WillowClan's flight. The trio spends half a moment more at the stream's edge before beginning the walk through the long grasses that are bent with the weight of raindrops. It provides dense cover, but every shaken blade showers the small party with droplets of chilly water that sink deep into their pelts. Even Streamheart, whose fur is thickest, grumbles her discomfort from time to time.

There are worse things to happen, though, and witnessing the fire's devastation certainly qualifies. As they trek down the hillside, the grassy cover begins to thin, morphing into greater quantities of damp ash as they go. The gold and green hills are blanketed in grey and black, and atop the far ridge, smoke trickles upward from the charred remains of a tree, toppled by the flames or perhaps struck by lightning.

BreezeClan's camp lies in ruins at the foot of the burnt tree's hill. At least, what's left of it. A few faint tendrils of smoke rise from the wreckage, but everything is gone. A blackened pile of bones has replaced the freshkill stores. The tightly woven nursery wall is a few strands of bracken at best. StarClan only knows for certain what lies in the old badger set that served as the elders' den. On Streamheart's advice, they avoid it; only the remains of Grasswhisker and Swiftfeather are likely to lie inside.

Coal gives up exploring the camp, instead standing transfixed in its center, staring up at the hill toward the burning tree. "There's a trail," he says softly, and there is. A blackened path crawls up the slope, scored just a little darker than the ravaged camp itself.

Before Stonetail can follow it, though, Streamheart says, "Let's leave it alone. We did what we came to do, and there's no way any cat could live here, let alone a whole Clan. We have to go back and tell them."

"That doesn't make this a very secret trip, then," Stonetail argues, glancing back up at the tree. What if Torch is up there? What if she misses her chance? She can't let that happen, and yet Streamheart will be suspicious.

"Fine," the grey warrior grunts before a reprimand can come. "There's nothing else here to look at unless you want to tell fortunes in rabbit bones." And no one wants to do that, so with a last look at the smoldering tree, Stonetail slinks away from the camp with her tail low.

Nothing. No resolution to this mess. Silently she scolds herself for thinking one night and cold fury would yield results, but the grey warrior cannot deny that she had been expecting answers steeped in blood. All the way back to the border, through the wet grass and falling sun, she says nothing, wallowing in disappointment, stewing in rage. What was the point of this expedition, then? No one had really been expecting the meadow and hills to be ultimately unscathed.

But then Coal lets out a short cry of alarm, freezing into place at the edge of the border stream, just before they cross. Stonetail reflexively unsheathes her claws, but finds nothing to be concerned about. Nothing moves besides the burbling stream.

"What was that about?" she asks, giving him a gentle nudge with her shoulder. He nearly launches himself over the water at the contact.

"I thought…" He shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind."

Streamheart is less than convinced. "You don't look like it was nothing."

"It was. My bad." The black tom swipes his tongue over his chest, flattening the rising fur, and hops over the stream. Instead of landing solidly, he stumbles forward and pretends not to notice, walking briskly onward without checking to see if Streamheart and Stonetail are following, which they are.

And in doing so, they save his life.

Streamheart sees the shadow first, cast around the stout trunk of a pine. She flicks her tail, catching Stonetail on the ear, and jerks her chin in its direction. Together they stare at it with brows furrowed, but then the shadow shifts, revealing the blurred outline of ears and strong shoulders pressed low to the ground to leap. To pounce. And Coal sees nothing, nothing at all.

Stonetail is racing towards Coal before she knows it. The shadow has become a cat, grey and banded with stripes. Both are in midair, both sailing squarely towards Coal's back, paws outstretched. But Stonetail gets there first, tackling Coal to the ground with a yowl, and the other cat flies overhead, nicking the tip of the grey warrior's ear with sharpened claws, tearing through flesh. Muzzle close to Coal's ear, she bites down a cry so as not to deafen him, and rolls to her feet, bristling to nearly twice her size as the other cat whirls to face her. To the left, Streamheart assumes a similar stance, fangs bared as she advances on the intruder from the other side.

"It's him," Coal croaks. From the corner of her eye, Stonetail can see the loner tremble, try as he might to hide it. His amber eyes flicker about, searching for an escape, and so she provides him with one. Hissing at their attacker, at _Torch_ , she places herself between the murderer and the loner. Behind her, there is a brief moment of silence before the leaf litter stirs and Coal turns tail and runs.

"Should have known finding him wandering while I was working on something else would be too good to be true," Torch drawls. "Couldn't you have been somewhere else? I would have cleaned up after myself."

"Murderer," Stonetail replies coldly.

"Loose ends are loose ends. I hate loose ends." Torch shrugs, though he casts a wary glance in Streamheart's direction before peering closely at Stonetail. He cocks his head to the side at first, but as he pieces together her identity, the makings of a snarl contort his face. His muzzle in particular is gruesome to look at, mangled as it is by cracked pink flesh, twisted upward from a long-past burn. Another burn scar graces his neck, jagged and wide, cutting a raw river through his fur.

"Greystar's kit," he hisses, muzzle twisting as he purrs. Like he knows something. "The foxheart's daughter. I wanted to wipe your line from the earth, you know, except I only finished part of the job. Your father was a slob, you know. He didn't just have you. He must have had others, because that little tabby looked just like him. Was she his granddaughter? Or was she yours? You don't look like a queen, but neither did your mother."

Thrushpaw might as well have been hers, Stonetail thinks. Except she doesn't really think, not hard enough, because she throws good sense to the wind and launches herself at Torch, raking her claws down his side. He's fast, though, and wiry. There's no doubt there is muscle packed under his short fur, but Stonetail sees a trace of her own long limbs and tail, along with a hint of white fur sprouting from burnt toes, so much like her own feet. But that's all she sees as Torch twists out of reach, maneuvering himself between Streamheart and Stonetail once again, unscathed.

"Whoever moves first, I attack the other," he announces, scoring deep lines in the dirt with his claws. "Don't be a mousebrain."

But Stonetail nods at Streamheart. Do it, she thinks. He already said he wants to kill me. I'm ready for him. Yet if there's one trait Streamheart embodies, it is good sense. She does not sheathe her claws, but gives no ground. "Leave ShadeClan on your own paws," she growls, "or we'll show you out. By dumping your body in the river."

"Empty threats. If you don't mean it, don't say it," Torch replies breezily. His tail lashes behind him, a whipping grey banner to betray his rising frustration. The scent of irritation rolls off him in waves; he's been caught, and he isn't pleased. But the glint in his eyes belies something totally different, something that makes Stonetail's blood roil. She hates it thoroughly.

"You think we can't haul your rotten carcass down to the water?" she snaps. "I'm happy to prove you wrong." She edges toward him, one poised step preceded by claws, but he makes the same move toward Streamheart, bringing them both to a stalemate. Stonetail may be prepared to risk her own life, but not her friend's. She curls her lip.

"I believe you, but you should believe me, too."

"Give me one good reason," Stonetail fires back. And when Torch takes a few backwards steps to kick a thrush out from beneath a scattering of pine needles, her eyes almost bulge out of her head. The bird is long dead, on the edge of rot, and one wing is torn so that it hangs by the merest ligament. Visions of the BreezeClan ravens flash before her eyes, black and deliberately broken. She has no doubts that Torch was there now, that the trail was his, that he planned to draw the fox out.

She has no doubts that he's done it again.

"Where does the trail go?" she demands.

"Where it needs to."

"Tell me!"

But Torch shakes his head and purrs; the simple action contorts his twisted features further. "I'm sure you know where it goes and what happens if you don't break it. Be sure to tell mother fox that I send my regards, will you?"

They could jump him now. It's two against one, and Stonetail's blood is singing. There is no better chance left in this encounter. If they wait any longer, Torch will get away. He'll vanish into the twilight as slim as the shadow as when he arrived, and they'll lose him, possibly for good.

But Streamheart says slowly, "Let him go," glancing sideways to her fellow warrior. "There's a _trail_. We can deal with him later."

"Oh, I'm sure you will." And before either she-cat can stop him, Torch launches himself away from them, streaking into the pines with astonishing speed. Stonetail hates watching his long stride disappear into the dark, yowls a wordless threat to his retreating form, and spares the dead thrush a nauseated look.

Before Streamheart can say another word, the grey tabby charges into the wood, kicking up dirt and needles as she goes in search of the track meant for foxes. They will not reach her camp, not tonight. Foxes will not root their greedy muzzles through her nest, nor tear down her thorny bracken walls, not this evening. It will be long after she is dead before that is allowed to happen, she decides. And even longer after Torch is dead.

Until the moon hangs at its zenith, Stonetail and Streamheart are out in the wood, carrying crowfood in their jaws to the corners of the territory, their fangs soaked in blood that is not Torch's. Neither is happier for it, but when they hear the baying of foxes in the distance, the howls stay in the distance. ShadeClan is safe.

For now.


	21. INTERLUDE V

He paces the camp in a fervor. Where are they? Where are they? He shouldn't have run, he should have stayed, but his paws are still shaking from the encounter, his heart still running the gamut again and again and again. He has told Greystar what happened of course, and she sped into the forest without a word to anyone, even when the camp guard called out to her, but she hasn't returned, either.

Horror seizes him, pulling him to a halt as if closing jaws of iron around his tail. What if Torch caught them? What if he caught all of them? The world tunnels into a dangerous pinprick of light, a narrow field of vision, and Coal sways, barely remaining upright. There's a murmuring to his right, probably someone asking if he's all right, but as long as it isn't Clay fretting, he's okay.

Clay. Clay, his only brother, the only thing keeping him from sprinting back into the pines to make up for running away like a snake-bellied coward. Where is he? A spike of panic leads Coal to believe his brother has left the camp, but no, there he is, ruddy tabby pelt buried among a mound of young warriors and apprentices who have lost their homes and their families. His back rises and falls with every breath, the clearest assurance that he is indeed still alive, and Coal exhales the second-shakiest breath of the night.

The first shakiest came when Stonetail drove him into the ground. As he rolled onto his back, he had seen the startling yellow mask she wore so well, and terror filled his bones. He had been sure she had reached her breaking point, that she had decided to kill him then and there. But instead she had saved him and stood between him and Torch as he turned tail and fled, no steadier than a robin with its pinions plucked out. All that, all that for him, and he had fled. He gasps for air, lungs constricting under the weight of guilt. Survivor's guilt. He recognizes it unequivocally, and how could he not? When his parents died protecting him and Clay, he couldn't breathe right for weeks. It hadn't been right for them to die, for him to survive. It hadn't been fair.

And now it's happening again, except suddenly Streamheart is pushing through the camp entrance, then Stonetail, then Greystar at the back, herding them in without a word. The fur along the leader's spine stands straight up, as if she's had as much of a fright as Coal has, but the two younger warriors look much different. Streamheart appears to be dragging herself across the ground step by step, not wounded, but stripped of energy. At her side, Stonetail's head is low, her ears back, and not an inch of her fur is smooth and well-groomed. By the cloud-dappled moonlight, the curl of her lip reveals fangs that have certainly not seen battle. There is no blood to be found.

And neither are the yellow eyes.

Coal suddenly finds that there's air aplenty, and he sinks to the ground with a faint, choked mewl. He did not leave them for death. They are alive. And as if for the first time, he's seeing Stonetail without that haunting flash of gold. Her bloodthirsty expression is still frightening in its own right, but it's so strange to look on without feeling like she and Torch are trading places by some mystical force.

The urge to thank her takes command of his limbs, but he fights it down. What if the eyes come back? What if she does want him dead? No, she can't. Not at all. Not if she went to those lengths to let him run, let him escape. Unless she was doing it for her own revenge? He jams his muzzle into the fur of his tail and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't know, he can't be sure. Maybe gratitude isn't safe, maybe it is. But she's safe and Streamheart's safe and Greystar is safe. Coal feels like he can finally rest, if only a little, and remains in his spot under the edge of the pine boughs without regard for the chilly breeze.

Hopefully, the cool wind will harden his heart enough to let him fulfill the promise he finds himself making. If the ShadeClan she-cats cannot kill Torch, he will. For them. For all they've done for him and for Clay. He will do it, terrified to his core or not. Torch will have to die.

Maybe he's at peace with that. Maybe.


	22. XVI - TEMPEST

Greystar curtails the patrols. With all three Clans inside ShadeClan lands, border patrols are nearly obsolete. The only outside threat is Torch, and that is a truth best left secret for all but a select few. As such, the only patrols leaving camp are sent to round up every last scrap of prey they can find, even if it means raiding bird nests or fishing in the river, unconventional sources of prey. A new weight has settled over the pine woods in the wake of these changes.

That weight is called hunger.

A single Clan's territory is enough to sustain one Clan and a little more. But BreezeClan and WillowClan, even with their losses, are stretching the limits, and a mere two days after averting disaster with Torch's trail, the younger cats are beginning to pass the bulk of their food onto the elders and the queens, who need prey to survive more so than the young do. Stonetail's belly feels like it's beginning to gnaw its way out of her body, desperate for more nourishment than half a mouse and a draught of water from the closest stream (which is almost too far from camp for Greystar to allow anyone close to it). The fierce combination of fatigue and restlessness is burning up the bloodlust that initially sustained her, leaving the grey warrior with leaden paws and a headache that seems to pulse faintly in the back of her skull, not enough to be painful, but enough to disrupt her focus even in simple tasks.

Hunger makes revenge hard. She wishes she had the energy to charge into the forest, the strength of a thousand warriors in her paws, but with a wry, unamused purr, she notes she's not much stronger than a young apprentice right now, distracted and dehydrated and underfed as she is. It's not as if death is around the corner, but the discomfort is there all too plainly, and it keeps her from doing anything more than going through the motions.

Surprisingly, Coal and Clay seem nearly unaffected by the changes. The brothers look a little tired, perhaps, but their paws do not drag the way the Clan cats' do. Hunger has met them before, and though they parted ways for a time, the familiarity is not gone. Dozing in the shade of the Great Timber, Stonetail catches herself admiring their resilience before she remembers that this is not a time to admire anything. This is a time for revenge, for finding Torch, for finishing Torch.

Weakly, she wishes it could all wait until the fire in her limbs returns, but greenleaf marches on. What happens if leaf-fall returns and the other Clans still have not left? The prey will dwindle further, and cats will begin to die again. Leafbare will only claim more lives, should it come to that. All paths, it seems, lead to death if Torch is not apprehended and the Clans are not restored to their rightful territories.

"I thought I'd find you out here," Streamheart says, padding up on Stonetail's right. The silver tabby's whiskers droop, and the fur around her neck looks particularly haggard, as if she's forgotten to groom it. Stonetail wouldn't be surprised if she just didn't have the energy. After all, she barely has enough energy herself to move aside and allow her friend some space.

"The dens are awful," she replies. It's true. Everyone's lying down inside, cooped up and bored. The mild greenleaf heat, relatively tolerable, is insufferable en masse. How long before it becomes a hotbed of disease?

"They are. WillowClan's especially miserable. They should be in the river right now."

"Don't remind me." WillowClan should be swimming to their hearts' content, but if Greystar and Featherstar are right, Torch put a stop to that during the fire. How long has it been? Stonetail stumbles over the passage of time, and eventually decides that it's not worth thinking too hard about. There are other matters to address.

"What happens if we just sit here?" she asks. "Are we just going to starve out? Is Torch going to kill us all?" The thought breaks out before the grey warrior can stop it. It's just too grim to be contained, but Streamheart does not take kindly to it. Her ears shoot upright, and for a moment, alarm beating down her weariness.

"We're not going to die."

"If not us, someone else."

"Stonetail!"

She rolls her eyes. "Look at it realistically. If things don't change soon, and I mean in the next few days, there will be deaths. And what then?"

"You're being a pessimist. Something will change."

"What if it changes for the worse?" She just can't let it go. How can she be optimistic in the wake of disaster, in the face of ruin? The grey warrior is not some bottomless font of wisdom and hope, brimming with solutions to even the most harrowing troubles. She is mortal, and because she is mortal, she is afraid. But who in ShadeClan is not afraid? Stonetail tries to convince herself that she is not alone in dreading the future, but the effort is hollow. After all, so few cats realize the peril Torch represents that she really is nearly alone in her fear.

"I want to tell Lakewhisker," she says suddenly, cutting off another of Streamheart's protests, lifting her head to scan the camp for the old tom's familiar form. He must be resting in the warriors' den, though. There's no trace of him in sight, and with all the chaos, he has yet to formally retire and take up residence with the elders. Where else could he be?

It's a dread thought, Stonetail realizes too late as she imagines Lakewhisker on patrol, on his final patrol, his path drawing ever closer to long claws and singed grey fur and a raw pink muzzle that's hungry for blood. Her heart quickens in her chest. Torch could easily overpower Lakewhisker, the older tom being as frail as he is. It could be over so quickly, with a twist, a snap, a dull thud as the body tumbles down…

"Stonetail!" Streamheart breaks through the terrifying vision. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Stonetail lies automatically.

"You didn't hear a word I said, though, did you?"

No, she didn't. Not a word of what the silver tabby had said made it to her ears. Sheepishly, she shakes her head and murmurs, "No," before she can stop herself, revealing that she is hardly fine at all. The lie is laid bare for Streamheart to capitalize on, which she naturally does.

"Get up," says the silver tabby. "We're going for a walk."

"Lakewhisker is probably still in camp," Stonetail replies. Something about hearing the words aloud makes her feel that, just for a moment, they must be true. "We can wait here."

"No," Streamheart insists, nudging Stonetail firmly. "We can't tell him yet, but you need to talk to someone else."

Tired of being prodded, Stonetail rises, though she gives the leader's den a dour glance, lip curled. "I'm not talking to Greystar," she growls.

"No, you're not. Which is why we're taking a walk." With that, Streamheart pads toward the camp entrance, leaving Stonetail little choice but to follow so that she does not make a scene in protesting her friend's cryptic actions. As they walk, even as they enter the forest, Stonetail tries to learn what the silver tabby intends, then tries to dissuade her entirely with hushed pleas to return to the safety of camp. Still Streamheart presses onward, refusing to budge, and when they enter a circular pine grove, Stonetail finally sees why.

"No," she rasps, her throat alarmingly similar to a river run dry. Her claws sink into the dirt.

There are two freshly turned patches of dirt in the grove, free from the blanket of pine needles that buries all else. Stonetail backs away; this is hallowed ground not meant for her, not yet.

Beneath the newly disturbed earth lies her guilt, her grievances, her hardest loss. Beneath the earth, among others moons ago interred, lies Thrushpaw.

"Why here?" she snaps, whirling on Streamheart even though it aggravates her fatigued limbs.

The silver tabby looks at her calmly, even sadly, from where she is lying down, panting, at the grove's edge. "Because you need a reminder."

"Of what? Of losing _her_?" The name still hurts, still makes her throat close up and her chest tighten miserably. To think of Thrushpaw is achingly difficult, but to speak of her may be impossible.

Streamheart takes Stonetail's aggression in stride, though. Maybe it's because she's learned loss, too. After all, her mother wasted away at a snail's pace, her life prolonged by herbs but probably not made any better. The anger of grief is hardly foreign to her, even if it is long past. Besides, if anyone has experience navigating Stonetail's harsher temperament, it is the silver tabby.

"You said there will be deaths," she says, evenly meeting Stonetail's eye. "But there already have been. You're standing in front of two. Yesterday, others were buried in their home territories. Death's already here, and you're convinced it won't leave."

"How can it?" Stonetail fires back, tail trailing through the pine needles. Remembering where she stands, she lowers her voice. "It's only getting worse."

"So tell that to Thrushpaw."

"What?"

"You heard me. Tell Thrushpaw that you're sure the Clans are going to be prey for death, that they'll be wiped out. Tell her just how much worse you think it's going to get. Don't spare the details."

The pines quiver; the strong breezes that precede full storm winds are arriving. For now, the sky is clear, but within the day it will be dark as smoke. A chill floods Stonetail's limbs, and she looks back on the graves. "I can't," she mumbles.

"Okay. So tell Thornwing instead."

Stonetail repeats herself. "I can't."

"Why not?" Streamheart presses. The stern edge to her voice is gone, replaced by downy soft sympathy, and she rises to join the grey warrior beside the buried siblings.

Looking Streamheart in the eye is too hard. No matter how much stubborn will she tries to summon, Stonetail can't meet her friend's eyes, filled with shame as she is. "If I tell them that," she whispers, staring just beyond Thrushpaw's grave instead, "their deaths don't mean anything. They'll just be part of a list, like they just happened to be first. Die first." She takes a shuddering breath. "They don't deserve that. Especially not…not…"

"Thrushpaw."

"Thrushpaw," Stonetail echoes. Her chest hurts.

»»««

Together, Stonetail and Streamheart take some time to mourn silently among the pines. The lonely vigil pales in comparison to the proper, all-night vigils traditionally held, but the warriors do not have that kind of time to spare. Sooner rather than later, they must return to camp and see if they are needed on one of the dwindling patrols.

Greeting them at the camp entrance, though, is not the usual guard. Greystar herself hunches outside the fallen timber that leads inside, her posture stiff as usual. When she sees Stonetail and Streamheart emerge from the forest, though, she leaps to her feet and marches forward. Stonetail hesitates as her mother advances; there's fury in every footstep, and a flash of guilt, of old obedience she would so like to shrug, flares hot in her chest before she forces herself forward again.

Yet Greystar isn't angry at all, not with them.

"Get inside," she tells them, circling around and prodding them forward with her muzzle. "And don't leave unless you're on patrol or getting water. You know what's out there." But she doesn't raise her voice, and it isn't level and cold like Stonetail has come to expect. She obeys, but hesitates at the other side of the tunnel, looking back through the shriveling moss overhang as Greystar assumes her watch again.

Impossible as it is to believe, Stonetail is almost certain ShadeClan's unflappable leader is worried. Since the face-off with Torch two days prior, Greystar has said nothing unnecessary, speaking only when absolutely required, even to her deputy and senior warriors. The old grey she-cat is curt by nature, and all the Clans know it, but Stonetail pulls herself from the tunnel reluctantly. Whatever Greystar is right now, it's more than curt. It's clipped, stripped to the barest bones of necessity, and the strain is starting to show in the curve of her shoulders and the rasp of her voice.

We're going to unravel, the grey warrior thinks, casting her eye around the camp and taking in all the slothful, withering forms taking shelter in the shade. We've made it two days, and we're already unraveling.

Except the brothers. Stonetail spies them under one of the smaller pines. Coal paces fervently as Clay bats a moss ball at the tree trunk for entertainment. They may not be perfectly hearty and hale, but they're strung tight with unused energy no one else seems to have. However, Coal deflates as soon as he looks up from the track he's worn into the pine needles to meet Stonetail's eye. The lean tom turns his back on her and begins to groom himself fastidiously, as he only does when anxiety has him in its black claws. If he's consistent about anything, he's consistent about pretending he isn't afraid.

To Stonetail's surprise, though, as she and Streamheart pad towards the warriors' den, Coal rises from his grooming fit and lopes toward them, keeping low to the ground as if he fears being spotted. Maybe Streamheart has talked to the loner recently, but this is the first time he has approached Stonetail since she tackled him out of Torch's reach. She slows to a halt and pricks her ears in a long, cool shadow, flicking her whiskers against Streamheart's side to call her attention to Coal's approach.

Suddenly it strikes her that she never checked to be sure Coal handled his escape from Torch well. "Are you okay?" she asks as he draws within earshot. He pulls up short, jaws parted in a non-answer of surprise. It's a fair response; Stonetail immediately realizes how unusual the question is, especially coming from her instead of Streamheart, who politely refrains from commenting on their role reversal.

Coal collects himself quickly. "You're okay," he mumbles, looking between the two warriors. He shuffles his forepaws like he hasn't a clue what to do with them, only stopping at Streamheart's even glance. If this were apprentice training, any ShadeClan warrior would scold him for avoiding the question, but this is hardly training. In fact, Stonetail's no longer quite sure what it is short of a siege from a murderous shadow, but nonetheless she gets the hint: he doesn't want to talk about it.

"What?" she asks instead. An imaginary paw slams down on her train of thought, forcing it to slow and recollect as she reconstructs her usual cold barriers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong." Coal senses immediately that he's given the wrong answer. His ears flatten as the she-cats start to turn away and he adds in a single breath, "I just want to find him and finish it."

"That's the idea," Streamheart grunts.

"No, I mean now. Today." His voice wavers for a moment, cracking with the confession's strain. "Before he comes to us. Or to Clay."

If there was ever any doubt that Coal wanted to put his brother's life before his own, it evaporates in the heartbeat it takes the black tom to look over his shoulder at the brown tabby, who is now on his back, ripping apart his moss ball out of sheer boredom. Hunting Torch now could mean death, Stonetail realizes for the first time. She has been so furious over Thrushpaw's murder that she hadn't stopped to consider that facing down the rogue could mean her own. Or Streamheart's. Or Coal's. Yet it's the only way to prevent more deaths, and Coal knows it. He's probably known it since it became clear Torch had set foot on ShadeClan lands, and despite the odds of his survival swinging between barely favorable and certainly grim, he wants to act anyway.

Stonetail's heart crawls into her throat as she makes a decision, and her skin prickles as the wind shifts, hinting at the storm brewing in the air. She knows she ought to consult with Streamheart, but it will only result in arguing given what she plans to suggest. Coal probably won't be pleased either, and the grey tabby resolves not to thank him for helping her make up her mind; there's no need to crush him and then rub salt into the wound. "No," she says softly.

"No?" Coal's muzzle wrinkles in the beginning of a snarl, but Stonetail cuts him off, backing away from Streamheart to stand where she can face them both.

"No," she repeats. "You're not going after him. Either of you."

"Then neither are you," Streamheart snaps, tail whipping through the grass. She's no fool, and has read the situation perfectly, as expected, as dreaded. Her blue eyes are narrowed to slits as she tries to calculate just how far Stonetail is willing to go, and the grey warrior forces herself to hold her friend's stare.

"Someone has to look after Clay and Lakewhisker. That's you two. It always has been." And now I'm looking after both of you, she adds silently, praying that she isn't trembling. She feels like she might be. It's not as if she's making a trivial choice at the moment. "They'll need you."

The fur along Streamheart's spine stands on end. "And we don't need you? Stonetail, your head is full of badger dirt if you think for a second that you're the only one in this camp that someone isn't relying on. If you go after him, you go with us," she spits, "or you don't go at all."

"I can't do that."

"Too bad. You'll have to. I'm not letting you take a chance that big all by yourself. You could die!"

"Streamheart, please. You have to stay and—"

"If you leave without one of us, I'll tell Greystar," growls the silver tabby suddenly, eyes flashing like flints. "I'll tell her right away, so help me StarClan, and if we have to drag you back by your tail, we will."

Stonetail can only gape. In all the moons of their friendship, Streamheart has never once used Greystar as leverage. It was forbidden by some unspoken law Stonetail has always been grateful for, even in their apprentice days. And now that law lies broken. To be fair, it's been broken in the interest of protecting her, but that doesn't make it sting any less. Streamheart is her best friend, privy to nearly all of her secrets and frustrations, and the witness to most of her strife with Greystar. Despite that, despite everything, she has turned without hesitation to _tattling_.

Stonetail straightens her spine, almost certain it's the hardest thing she's had to do in her entire life, and visions of Thrushpaw's grave suddenly swim before her eyes. There will not be more graves beside the little tabby's. There cannot be. "So tell her," she whispers evenly.

Watching Streamheart turn in a huff makes her want to apologize. The temptation to call the silver tabby back and to make amends is overwhelming, but she clenches her jaw so hard it hurts, so hard she almost doesn't hear Coal, who has watched the sudden escalation in total silence.

"Didn't you tell me not to be a martyr?" he asks pointedly, but before Stonetail can answer, he shakes his head and pads away to Clay's side, curling up to stare anywhere but at her.

She takes that as her cue to leave. Her first stop is at the dwindling freshkill pile, where she scoops up the plumpest mouse available, heedless of anyone's prying eyes. Let them think her greedy, but she needs her strength, and so she devours it, only slowing when she catches Streamheart's fuming expression peeking out from the warriors' den. Licking the bones clean as patiently as she can, she waits for the silver tabby to turn her back, waits for the opportunity to move along with all due haste. Impatience bubbles in her gut, and the longer she waits, the clearer she can hear her steadying pulse in her ears. This is her choice. Her decision. Whether they like it or not, she will protect them. All of them.

When her opportunity arrives, the rain has already started. The drizzle gives her cover, and in the general hustle to squeeze into the dens for shelter, Stonetail leaves the mouse bones in the mud and slips out through the flimsy dirtplace wall. Streamheart will check the passage soon, the grey warrior knows. They've used to it too many times, and the effort it would take to craft another way out is simply too much. The head-start the dirtplace route has given her will have to do.

For a moment, she stops to look back at the camp, an apology hanging on her lips, but an apology won't be good enough. Torch's body, though, might just satisfy, and turning her back on ShadeClan, she bounds deeper into the pines in pursuit of the best and bloodiest apology she can offer.


	23. XVII - ADRENALINE

The rain is light and steady, dousing the forest canopy but only misting the undergrowth. Stonetail feels the chill pressing down from the sky, but feels a certain gratitude to the clouds above. For every minute they fail to break open and come crashing down, she can continue her pursuit of Torch uninterrupted.

She wonders how long it's been since Streamheart made good on her threat and went to fetch Greystar. Long enough for a patrol to be on the hunt, provided Greystar cares enough to send anyone. Long enough for Torch to get a little farther away, provided he has any interest in leaving. Long enough that doubt and fear and regret are holding bitter council in her heart.

Shutting Streamheart out may prove to be the worst choice of her life, Stonetail thinks. All their lives, the silver tabby has been nothing but an ally, a confidant, a friend, and how has the grey warrior repaid her? "Enough," she growls to herself, shaking her head. Finding Torch comes first, and worrying about how to mend her friendship with Streamheart comes later. If the order is reversed, she tells herself, then she may not have a friendship to worry about for long.

A damp twig cracks underfoot, and Stonetail nearly shoots for the nearest tree in her panic before silently chiding herself. How careless can she be? If Torch were nearby, he would have a bead on her in moments for making such a rookie mistake. Muscles bunched, she surveys the forest in all directions, turning slowly to examine all the shifting shadows among the pines. Once satisfied none of them are remotely feline, Stonetail blows out a short breath and presses along.

To say that she knows where she is going would be a lie. Torch's scent is wraithlike to begin with, and two days have only made it more difficult to follow. Stonetail had started at the site of their earlier confrontation, but now, it has only led her in broken spirals through the forest, probably thanks to the ugly trail of crowfood Torch laid to lure the foxes in. The possibility that he may try to lay another trail gnaws at Stonetail's gut, but she forces it out of mind. Torch first, other problems later. _All_ other problems later.

Steady as a stone, the grey warrior winds through the forest, ignoring the rising sense that her pursuit is a fruitless one. She can accept no other outcome tonight than one that ends in blood on the forest floor, one that ends in safety for the Clans. But then there's Coal's words.

 _Didn't you tell me not to be a martyr?_

She did, and though she's known, Stonetail finally admits to herself that the loner asked the same of her. There's no promise she can best Torch, either, no promise that this hunt is anything less than a step to self-sacrifice. If she dies—no, if Torch kills her—all of her struggles will fall to someone else. Someone who doesn't deserve it.

Stonetail's limbs lock, and it takes what little energy she can muster to hobble under the nearest holly bush before the shivering wracks her body. She is on a fool's errand, a self-imposed death march, and she could have brought company. She could have brought support. She could have promised life, but she had been too stubborn and full-up with skewed pride to see things straight. Now she is probably going to die for it.

She'll put up a good fight, of course. She'll put up the best fight the stars have ever seen, but maybe that won't be enough. The blinding lightning that suddenly shoots down seems to be in agreement, and the peal of thunder that follows drowns out the strained mewl that escapes her throat.

The patrol will find her. Eventually, the patrol will escort her home, and if they happen to find Torch along the way, so be it. At least there will be safety in numbers. But what if there is no patrol? Greystar could easily justify putting the protection of three entire Clans over the safety of one cat hardheaded enough to risk their life with a killer waltzing freely through the territories, even if that one cat is her daughter.

If Stonetail is going to reach camp, she realizes she'll have to do it alone.

For the longest moment of her life, she crouches under the holly bush and breathes. In, out. In, out. The sound of the rain fades into the background, conquered by the slowing rhythm of her breath and the whisper of her pulse in her ears. If she is going to reach camp, she has to breathe.

But suddenly the breath is stolen from her chest as lightning kisses the top of one of the nearby pines, setting it alight. Stonetail cries out in surprise as the wood splinters with a mighty crack, spraying embers and whole branches to the ground. Before the flames crawling down the length of split pine can reach her hiding place, she launches herself free of the holly, shaking withered flowers aside as she goes, heart slamming against her ribs.

Rain harder! she thinks, scampering to a safe distance from the burning pine before pausing to watch. The fire spreads slowly at first, but without warning, the splintered portion and the remainder of the trunk part ways. The ground shakes with the impact, though the fire has too strong a hold on the pine to be smothered by the fall. Stonetail finds herself watching in horror as it consumes branch after branch, trickling its way into the undergrowth, which is only just now exposed to the rain. Dry as it is, the ground foliage smokes and steams before kindling brightly, and before Stonetail's very eyes, fire begins to snake across the forest floor.

She can't move until an icy raindrop splashes against her spine, having leaked through the branches overhead. It spurs her into blind motion through the forest, cracking as many twigs as she likes along the way, kicking up loose dirt and dead pine needles in the process. Stonetail runs without direction for what feels like an eternity, though it gets her no closer to camp. Heart stuttering, she looks wildly around for familiar landmarks, for anything to give her a solid sense of where she is. How off track could she be? How far from the camp has she led herself?

But Thrushpaw's grave lies at her feet, gently splattered with rain, answering with steady silence.

"Thank you," Stonetail chokes out, quickly moving her paws clear of the upturned earth as she bows her head. Hallowed ground, she reminds herself. Hallowed ground. No matter how hallowed it is, though, there is no response from her former apprentice, no rising from the grave, or visions from beyond. Before she can lose herself to frenzy again, Stonetail rights her course and surges home.

As she runs, the weather worsens. The rain falls with only a little more force, but the wind sings furiously, and lightning fills the sky with greater frequency. To the east, the burning forest billows black, sickly sweet smoke. Stonetail can hardly think with the rumbling thunder overhead, and only one thing stops her from charging headlong to her death.

It's Greystar, tackling her from the side as a pine branch is ripped down by the gale, yowling something that is lost to the rain.

"Get off!" Stonetail shouts, kicking out before she realizes who it is. When she recognizes her mother's solid figure against the fallen branch, though, she sheathes her claws out of reflex.

Greystar doesn't mean to have an idle chat. Swift as the lightning above, she reaches out and clubs a heavy paw against her daughter's side. "Run," she bellows. "He's going to use the fire!"

"What?" Stonetail wonders if she has mud stuffed into her ears. Not even StarClan could predict where the lightning would fall, and even if it could, there was no controlling fire. How could Torch of all cats possibly have any mastery over hungry flames? But then her stomach drops.

Fire spreads. It takes tinder, then kindling, then it consumes whatever fuel lies within reach, always ravenous for more until the world decides to drown it, to smother it, to end it in some way beyond the Clans' capabilities to prevent. But most importantly, it spreads, which destroyed WillowClan and BreezeClan alike. The trail of charred branches in WillowClan territory flash to the forefront of Stonetail's mind, and the darkened path leading down the hill toward BreezeClan's camp follows suit, crowned by the burnt tree. Even as Greystar tries to explain how Coal put it together for her at the first sign of smoke on the horizon, Stonetail knows how the Clans have burned.

It has been one part luck, of course. Violent lightning storms preceded the other two events. The massive willow was struck the first time, and the second time, it must have been the tree overlooking BreezeClan's camp. Nature started the fires, but Torch had to have been watching, waiting for a perfect opportunity to finish the job. He has made the weather work for him whenever possible.

"His face is scarred from dragging branches," Stonetail blurts out, cutting off Greystar's repeated order to run. "He's going to bring the fire to us. To the camp!"

Greystar stiffens and shakes her head vehemently. "No, he's not. He's going to follow us away from camp. He has to. Stonetail, listen to me. You have to run!"

"How is he supposed to know to follow us? He's going to think we're in the camp," Stonetail shoots back, checking over her shoulder for any sign of the rogue. He must be close. The fire must have drawn him in like a murderous moth. He has to be on his way. There's no way he won't be.

And even if she and Greystar are not in camp, Coal and Clay are. Streamheart is. All three Clans are, and if she sprints into the forest now, suddenly her earlier fears are turned on their head. She will not die, leaving her troubles for those still in her wake. Instead, she will flee into the forest, and the Clans will perish in a fire not meant for them.

"Stonetail, _please_ run away!"

The grey warrior looks her leader in the eye, trapped by the urgency she hears. To her surprise, she does not find a command waiting. Instead, she finds Greystar haggard, frantic, desperate. Begging to save a single life at the cost of so many others.

She actually sees a mother.

And so she runs, but not to the hills. Not to the river, either, or to the unexplored borders, but into the heart of the forest, _her forest_. She runs home as fast as her hungry, weary paws will carry her, flying through the undergrowth as if StarClan has granted her wings, all because she saw a mother in Greystar's eyes.

And not only a mother, but a mistake.

When she slipped out of the dirtplace, Stonetail had been prepared to lay down her life in exchange for the lives everyone still huddled in camp. Now, Greystar has accidentally reversed the stakes. By vanishing into the forest without definitively drawing Torch's attention, she has left the unwitting camp to his mercy. By pleading with Stonetail to run, she has ensured the survival of one instead of many.

Just in sight of the camp entrance, Stonetail slips on the damp grass, feet flying out from under her. Somewhere behind her, lost to the rattling thunder, she catches fragments of the sounds of Greystar's pursuit, only just slower than her own pace. Panting, the grey warrior staggers upright and bolts through the tunnel, only to collide with Morningfur, who carries one of Sageflight's kits in her jaws. Both cats leap back in alarm, but the queen recovers faster, shouldering past Stonetail while offering muffled reassurances to the trembling bundle of fur in her mouth. Meanwhile, Stonetail stares, jaw hanging, at the Great Timber awash in flame and crushing the leader's den with its full weight.

Her first thought is that Torch beat her here with his smoldering branches, that he brought destruction and death before she could arrive to do anything about it, but then she realizes that the Great Timber could never be splintered by the force of a single cat. Just as the lightning struck the forest pine, so it has hailed ruin on ShadeClan's central landmark. The fallen timber is blessedly damp, preventing a full blaze from taking root, but it has caught fire nonetheless, and until the rain puts it out, it remains a danger.

Suddenly a new weight crashes into Stonetail's side, and she is knocked to the ground once again. She collects herself more quickly this time to find Streamheart holding her down by the shoulders. "You mousebrain!" the silver tabby cries. "I saw the smoke out there and sent Coal for Greystar. I thought you…I thought… Stonetail, you are the worst!" But instead of pummeling the grey warrior's exposed belly, she steps aside and buries her muzzle in Stonetail's shoulder, mumbling, "You could have been killed. Mousebrain. Absolute mousebrain."

"A mousebrain," the grey warrior repeats weakly. It's not an insult. It's affection and worry and the slightest hint of smug judgment rolled tightly into one, and Stonetail finds her legs shaking beneath her as she rises.

"You'll probably hear more about this later," says Coal as he slides up on the right, the hint of amusement on his face changing rapidly to grim concern. At his side is Redpaw, who in turn is shepherding Cricketpaw and Mistpaw toward the camp entrance. The apprentices stop with their escort, but he glances down at them and orders them onward with a flick of his ear towards the tunnel.

There isn't time to express her regret or relief. "He's coming," Stonetail says breathlessly. "We have to keep everyone together. Who left already?"

"I took most of WillowClan to the nearest stream." Clay rushes up, sharing thick smudge of soot across his left shoulder with Stonetail as he brushes against her in greeting. His knack for interrupting conversations is as strong as ever, but at least he has something important to share this time. "Their queens and elders went first, but Featherstar is still here. I don't think she'll leave until everyone else is out."

"I was rounding up BreezeClan just a moment ago," Streamheart adds. "They're nearly ready. And I sent Morningfur with Leopardkit to the stream to meet WillowClan. Sageflight won't leave until everyone else does, either. She's been here too long."

They get no further in coordinating the evacuation, though. As Tawnyfeather passes behind them with Brackenheart leaning heavily on her side, Greystar barrels into camp with wild eyes, turning cats back from the hollow log. Spying Stonetail, she races over and shoves Clay aside, much to the tabby's surprise. "We're trapped," she wheezes. Looking directly at Stonetail, who stares in alarm at the long new gash down her mother's foreleg, she says, "He brought a branch. The entrance is burning."

And so the rest of the Clans get their first glimpse at the cat orchestrating their deaths.

Torch tugs his burning branch through the tunnel with a grunt, and when the first warriors realize he is not a part of the Clans, it's too late. The scarred rogue brandishes the branch in a wide arc, setting the grass at his feet aflame before he swipes his weapon toward the nursery. Sootwing lunges forward at this before anyone can bar his way, only to take a shower of embers to the face while silver claws rip his feet out from under him.

He dies slowly, helplessly, Torch's claws plunged deep into the front of his throat. Someone screams.

"Thought I might find you here," the grey rogue says, looking directly at the brothers, then Stonetail, as he drops the branch casually across Sootwing's twitching form, eliciting a wet, strained gurgle that mingles with the rain. "Let's say we finish this? Here and now seems convenient."

Stonetail looks to the brothers first. Their pelts are on end despite the rain, and neither one seems to have the slightest notion of fleeing. Coal spares her a short glance, his amber eyes the meanest slits she's ever seen in her life, but whatever hate is festering there is not directed at her. She nods to him, then looks to Greystar automatically, seeking direction. Fight or flight?

Except Greystar is already rushing to grapple with Torch.

Stonetail vaguely remembers being promised first blood and last blood, but suddenly that matters as much as a mouse's tail. "Get everyone else out!" she cries, butting her head against Streamheart's shoulder and angling her ears toward the dirtplace. It lies opposite the Great Timber and the camp entrance, and though some of the heartier cats will need to push their way through, it's the exit they still need so badly.

For a second, it looks as if Streamheart wants to argue, but instead she darts around Stonetail and points Clay in the direction of the elders' den, where the remains of BreezeClan are huddled in fear. Then she dashes toward the nursery, ducking around the edge of Torch and Greystar's fight, camouflaged by the billowing smoke as it mingles with the tabby stripes swirled across her pelt. Coal wordlessly trails her in, his progress almost impossible to follow in the dark.

Stonetail doesn't have time to play the spectator, though. Instead, running on a mixture of instinct and fear, she barrels first into the medicine den, where Robinfoot is stuffing herbs into leafy packets as fast as his shaking paws will allow him. "I knew he was coming back. I knew it!" he wails, though the moment he realizes he has company, he tries to shove a packet Stonetail's way. "Start carrying these out or we'll lose them!"

Instead, she steps around the packet. "You knew?" she growls. "What do you mean _you knew_?"

"Please just take the herbs and go or I won't be able to help anyone after this. It's important that—"

"It's important that you explain yourself!" Stonetail snaps. Robinfoot leaps back, eyes round as the moon, and knocks over a tower of dried leaves. They crackle as the brown tabby catches his footing.

"His fur!" he whimpers. "In Thrushpaw's claws. I thought I knew it but wasn't sure, but it's him. He left his fur in Windfur's claws, too. Oh, StarClan, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry…"

Stonetail has heard enough. If Robinfoot's silence had cost lives, she might be angry, but for now, it's just simple cowardice. Irritating cowardice, but simple cowardice. She turns on her heel and flies to the warriors' den, rousing the last elders and remaining warriors with a yowl. "Help Robinfoot with his supplies," she orders them, speaking over whatever it is Oaknose has to say. "The entrance is on fire, so you'll need to carry everything out through the dirtplace. Go quickly!"

It's then that she locks eyes with Lakewhisker, who gets to his feet at the back of the den. He says nothing to her, but dips his head low before addressing the stunned warriors around him. "You heard Stonetail. It's time for us to leave. Pineheart, you're the fastest, so please check the other dens. Make sure everyone is out or get them on their way." And with that, he bolsters Brightface upright, prepared to carry his Clanmate out or face death. Stonetail can only pray it will be the former, or else her relief at seeing Lakewhisker alive will die all too shortly.

"Pineheart, wait!" she calls as the ginger tabby sprints past her. "Streamheart and Coal have the nursery. Check the other dens first."

"I will."

They part ways with that, without a shred of friction, and as Pineheart scrambles into the apprentices' den, avoiding the touch of the Great Timber's burning branches nearby, Stonetail races for the elders' den, relieved to see Tawnyfeather herding her own Clanmates out, sending them in Clay's direction as he paces before the dirtplace's entrance. The responsibility of bearing Brackenheart to safety has been passed to a pale brown tabby tom, though the warrior hardly looks like he's in shape to escort his medicine cat all alone. His whiskers quiver violently, visible even from a distance, and he keeps his ears pinned flat against his skull. When she takes some of Brackenheart's heavy weight on her own shoulder, Stonetail is careful to get the tom's attention first. "The dirtplace isn't very far," she says, fighting to keep her voice level. "I'll help you through."

Step by labored step, they haul BreezeClan's feeble medicine cat through the narrow passage. Thankfully, some of the ShadeClan warriors have already carried out some of Robinfoot's bundled supplies, and Clay holds back a swath of bracken with his claws, broadening the gap enough that the pale tom can take his Clanmate alone from there. Burden relieved, Stonetail tries to turn around and re-enter the camp, but finds her way blocked by the rest of the fleeing cats. They stream through as quickly as they can, some with herb bundles between their teeth, and others with Clanmates pressed close at their sides. Coal and Streamheart slip through in the process, each one with a kit hanging from their jaws. The silver tabby looks particularly distraught, though, and passes her kit to Stormfoot, the cat nearest her with nothing else to carry. Coal does the same, depositing his own kit at the warrior's feet.

"Sageflight and Pineheart are dead," Streamheart says, blocking Stonetail from slipping into the dirtplace again. "The nursery caught as we were getting out, and some of the Great Timber fell on the apprentices' den before Pineheart could get out. I… Don't go back in there. Please."

"We have to make sure everyone is out, though," Stonetail replies, stepping aside so Redpaw, Cricketpaw, and Mistpaw can pass to safety, Clay bringing up the rear.

"Better be quick, then," says the ruddy tabby, giving his thick coat a shake. Ash drifts from his body as he moves on, calling over his shoulder, "I didn't see anyone else, but Greystar is still fighting. Alone."

Clay's innocent tone makes it hard to tell if the remark is pointed, but it strikes hard nonetheless. Stonetail turns on her heel to re-enter the burning camp, only for Streamheart and Coal to stand firmly in the way. They all stare at each other for a second, tension filling the air almost as thickly as smoke, but then Stonetail promises, "I'll only attack him by surprise."

"You won't attack him at all," Streamheart corrects her.

"I can't promise that. And I won't wait until he attacks me."

"So I'll go with," Coal interrupts. "Two against one. Three if Greystar is still in shape to fight." There's a hard set to his narrow shoulders as he trains his eye on Streamheart. The silver tabby shows no sign of relenting, and shifts herself close to the gap in the dirtplace wall.

But she is not so stubborn to turn down a compromise. With a sudden sigh, she steps aside and says, "Clay and I will take everyone to meet WillowClan at the stream. As soon as we get there, we're turning around to come back for you two, whether you're done here or not. Got it?"

"Got it," Stonetail echoes. For a heartbeat she wrestles with the urge to press her forehead to Streamheart's, to give her friend the okay to leave her behind if necessary. Somehow she pushes the urge back into place, though it's like trying to press an uprooted tree back into the earth. This is not a last goodbye, she resolves. When the smoke clears, she will be alive and ready to return to her Clan and to her closest friend. There can be no other ending.

Sparing Coal a brief glance, to which he offers the faintest nod, Stonetail lunges through the dirtplace and into the thickening smoke.

Everything is dark.


	24. XVIII - HERITAGE

Between the rain and smoke, visibility is worse than limited. Stonetail creeps blindly around the camp's edge, unable to stop and scent for stragglers without drawing in a lungful of ash. The heat from the Great Timber licks at her pelt, even from a distance, and her eyes begin to water. What little light seeps through the smoke comes from the hungry flames.

"Stonetail?" She jumps at the sound of Coal's voice, but manages to hold back a shout. In the choking gloom, Coal's shadowy pelt is perfect camouflage from prying eyes. Only his voice and his amber eyes blinking out of the darkness betray his location.

"What?" Stonetail asks, collecting herself.

"I think I heard someone in the medicine den."

"Go look, and be quick." Before the loner can slip away, she adds, "Meet me in the spare den."

That's just where she's headed. It's far enough from the slowly growing blaze that someone may have tried to use it for shelter. The grass below Stonetail's feet crackles as she slinks into the den, and to her alarm, she finds a pair of burning amber eyes staring straight through her.

For a second, Stonetail is certain she has stumbled into a trap made by Torch, and that he is the cat cloaked in darkness. Her eyes adjust, though, and instead she discovers Beetlewhisker with one leg splayed awkwardly to the side. "I thought you were Featherstar," he growls, losing his alert posture.

"She's still here?"

"Trying to make a splint." He wiggles his injured leg, wincing. "Only way I'm leaving alive."

Stonetail bites her tongue, trying to remember when the WillowClan warrior injured himself. Maybe it's none of her business, but it troubles her that she can't see clearly through the haze of hunger and grief that surrounds the last few days.

Featherstar spares her further discomfort, though, peeling into the den with a drooping mouthful of leaves Stonetail does not recognize. "Eat these," she commands Beetlewhisker, shooting Stonetail a brief glance. If Featherstar is surprised to see her, she does not show it plainly. "I couldn't find any decent bark. You're going to walk out of here on three paws, splint or no splint."

As WillowClan's leader helps her warrior stand upright, Coal arrives, followed by the familiar tabby pelt of Mothmoon. Behind her is yet another cat, this one a dark brown tabby queen. The number of stragglers seems to grow by the minute.

"They're looking for Molepaw," Coal explains, but the brown tabby's wail cuts him off.

"He went looking for Lionpaw before anyone could tell him she went with WillowClan!"

Stonetail's stomach lurches. If Molepaw has gone searching for his denmate, she has a sinking feel that she knows where he stopped first. "Have you checked the apprentices' den?" she asks, mouth suddenly twice as parched as before.

"No," Mothmoon replies. "Part of your Great Timber burned it. There's nothing left." She realizes too late what she's said. A slight hitch in her breath signals her distress even before her eyes widen, and her companion's response is even worse. The brown tabby shrieks, a short, scraping note that turns to a hoarse breath almost immediately. Tremors wrack her limbs, and Stonetail fears the she-cat will collapse into a heap.

"Quailwing, please, we'll search again," Mothmoon whispers. The words must have fought to escape her because she trembles, too. But Quailwing takes no solace in this, and with Mothmoon in desperate tow, she rushes into the smoke, calling for Molepaw between sobs.

Stonetail risks a glance outside. The two BreezeClan cats are hazy silhouettes through the smoke, but a sudden flash of lightning throws them into sharp relief.

Then a second flash shows Torch crouched over their bodies, looking merely inconvenienced as he wipes his claws clean against their pelts.

He heard them, Stonetail quickly realizes. Sound is the only reliable sense amid the smoke, and if Torch hears her before she hears him, she will die.

"You have to go," she says, turning to find Beetlewhisker teetering on three unsteady paws. "Without a sound, through the dirtplace, to the stream. Go!" Ushering them out proves easier said than done, though. Beetlewhisker, like all the Clan cats, is half-starved, and without a fourth leg to stand on, his damaged balance results in more falling down and buckled limbs than Stonetail wants to see, even before he and Featherstar vanish beyond a bank of smoke.

Coal coughs and crouches to avoid a fresh cloud of smoke as it rolls into the den. "Warriors' den and medicine den are clear," he rasps as Stonetail drops to her belly beside him. "Elders' den starting to catch, apprentices' den destroyed. We need to find Greystar."

"I saw Torch," Stonetail confesses suddenly, not at all concerned with the state of the dens anymore. "He found Mothmoon and Quailwing. He heard them."

"He's not fighting?"

"No."

"Then he's looking for Greystar. They probably lost each other in the smoke."

Or he killed her, Stonetail thinks, grinding her teeth as if to trap the thought before it leaps from her tongue. "Then he might find Featherstar," she says instead. "Go find her and Beetlewhisker, get them out, and I'll look for Greystar."

"But…" Coal halts, meeting Stonetail's eye for a fleeting second. "Be quick," he mutters. And then he too is swallowed by the smoke.

Stonetail holds her breath at the mouth of the spare den, straining to catch the sounds of a fight. Nothing comes, though, save for the hammering of the rain and the snapping of the fire as the wind stokes it to new heights. The sounds seem muffled to Stonetail at first, as if filtering through a dream, but the hot ember that lands on her paws is no vision. Neither is the storm or the blaze. Her hiss of pain as she bats the ember out is the final note in the symphony of destruction that she can bear.

Pelt prickling, she rushes toward the warriors' den, taking brief cover against its thorny outer shell. The wind rises, carrying enough smoke away with it to reveal Sootwing's body near the nursery, mangled by the spluttering branch atop it. Though she would prefer to look away from her fallen Clanmate, Stonetail listens for any sign of Torch before bolting out of hiding to take the branch in her teeth and pull it away. At first, it slides smoothly, but then it snags against Sootwing's side, showering Stonetail's muzzle in bright sparks that her sear her down to the skin. Biting down a cry, she leaves Sootwing's body and moves onto the remains of the nursery to double check its fate. Like the elders' den, it is also beginning to burn, and she does not take the risk of searching for survivors.

The limp tortoiseshell paw over the threshold speaks volumes.

And so there is nothing to do but search for Greystar. For a moment, Stonetail pauses, choking on smoke. She can't stay much longer or the smoke will kill her before she ever lays eyes on Torch. Keeping her head down, she listens once again, only to be met by the howl of a sudden burst of wind. The gale clears an unexpected amount of smoke even as it whips the Great Timber into a frenzy.

Not only that, but it clears a path to Torch.

Stonetail locks eyes with him and barely feels her features twist into a snarl. She hears herself hissing clearly, though, and in spite of her aching lungs, she charges. The world around her blurs into something dark and unreal, smudged at the edges with blood and soot.

Torch has nothing to say this time. His glib tongue has abandoned him, and his focus seems to be solely on preparing himself to brush aside Stonetail's fury. In spite of the heat, she flies toward him across the scorched earth, heedless of the pain lancing through her paws. He is so close, close enough that Stonetail throws reason to the winds. The stiller his tongue when she catches him, she thinks, the easier it will be to tear it out.

They meet in an explosion of fur and fangs, spitting each other's faces as they grapple. Torch is older, and despite his lean appearance, he is heavier. Almost immediately, Stonetail feels the full force of his weight as he shoves her away. Falling to all fours, she allows him a vicious swipe, ducking to the outside of the swing to rake her claws over his foreleg. The rogue has moons of discipline to enforce his strength, though; instead of howling, he follows through on the blow, spinning to kick out with his rear legs.

Caught in the chest, Stonetail drops back to catch her breath. If she can't be stronger than Torch, she must be faster, colder, smarter. With a hiss, she rolls out of reach, allowing Torch's perfectly executed leap to meet only empty air. He recovers sooner than anticipated, though, and Stonetail dodges a swipe meant to open her throat. Cherry red seeps through shallow wounds on her chest instead.

"I hate it when you don't die easy," Torch growls, feigning a snap at her ankles before striking at her head. The narrow miss draws a caterwaul of frustration from his raw, puckered muzzle. "You should be dead!" he howls.

"I shouldn't have been born," Stonetail mumbles as she puts another tail-length between herself and Torch. She hates that it's true. Greystar never should have mated with Torch, and Stonetail should never have come into the world squalling like a storm, but it is too late to change that. All that can she can do is bring about the end of Torch.

The wind grows ever stronger, stripping away layer by layer of smoke. Stonetail's lungs still ache, but the clearer her field of vision becomes, the hotter her fury burns.

Again, Stonetail and Torch clash. He rips at her tail. She takes a sliver of his ear. He aims for her belly. She slashes at his eyes. On and on they fight, shedding blood and fur on the earth as they search for openings and weakness and resolution.

Stonetail finds it first.

Claws locked with Torch's, she has a moment to study his scarred muzzle with astonishing clarity. The cracks in the pinkish tissue run deep, like channels carved in the hills by rain. Half of Torch's nose is shriveled and twisted with damage, while the other side is as red as the stone by the river, though hardly as wet. But his eyes are untouched, unclouded by injury. They nearly exude their own yellow light, a product of madness, envy, hate.

And then the moment is over. Stonetail clicks into motion again, disengaging from Torch's grasp and leaping backward. He starts as if to rush her, running forward with unimagineable speed, but when he bunches his muscles to spring and pushes off the wet ground, he slips.

Stonetail is on him in an instant. She pins his shoulders to the ground and gouges her hind claws into the tender spaces where his thighs meet his underside. He howls in response, bucking beneath her, but she shifts her weight backward to apply more pressure.

"You should be dead," she growls, bringing one forepaw to the soft hollow of his throat, claws flickering in the firelight. "Not me. You."

At first he has no response except to glower and squirm under Stonetail's paws. Realizing the odds, though, or perhaps in an effort to preserve his pride, he goes still, curling his lip. "I'm not afraid to take what I want," he says, "and you should be dead for trying to stop me. I hate witnesses."

"And I hate murderers." Stonetail digs her claws into his thighs again, eliciting another yowl. She contemplates ripping him apart, chin to tail just as he has done so many times before. It would be justice. It would satisfy the bloodlust squeezing her gut like a snake.

Suddenly Torch laughs, a harsh and broken sound. "But you're willing to become one? She raised you with cold blood and a dash of righteousness, huh?" Even when Stonetail gives him a violent jab in the throat, he goes on. "I knew Greystar was heartless when she left me for that other tom. Ripped him up before she could leave him in the dust, too. Did him a service. But I didn't finish that job. I made a mistake, if you can believe it."

"Stop talking," Stonetail growls.

Torch thrashes, trying to shake her off. His voice rises. "I didn't show up just to kill him. He was a consolation prize. For not getting what was mine."

"Stop." Stonetail suddenly feels cold, as if the Great Timber's blaze has been sucked out of existence, leaving only a chill in its wake. "Stop talking."

"Are you sure you don't want to hear this? Because I bet your mother won't tell the truth," he sneers, his voice dripping with honey. With bait.

"Stop it!"

"I think it's funny you're so grown up and heartless. You're ready to kill, just like—"

"Stop!"

"—me, just like you were supposed to—"

She drives her claws in deeper. "Enough!"

"—because Greystar wasn't supposed to raise you or even keep you." Now the words come out in a rush. Torch cannot be stopped, and by the wicked gleam in his eyes, he knows it. "She went back on her word, didn't give me my kit. She broke her promise to put the Clan first and chose you instead, so you grew up _here_ , with the soft hearts and kits.

"Somehow Greystar raised a killer for me. But maybe that's not her blood at work, is it, daughter?"

He knows. Stonetail freezes, staring into Torch's yellow eyes for any trace of a bluff, a guess, but she finds one. This is cold, hard fact. He knows who she is. He knows Windfur was never a part of it. He knows so much more than she does.

And Greystar was going to give her to him.

Stonetail is entirely unprepared when Torch sinks his claws into her shoulders and rolls. The world flips, and in a heartbeat, his grey shape fills the sky. He presses his forepaws against her throat, pushing and pushing as he pummels her stomach with his back feet. She tries to loosen his hold, but her vision is tunneling and her paws feel number with every strike Torch makes. By the time he steps off her, she cannot recover quickly enough to stop him from taking her scruff in his teeth and hurling her into the burning branches of the Great Timber.

She screams. She screams at the top of her lungs as her side is consumed with heat, and a last, feeble burst of adrenaline gives her the strength to roll away and smother her burning fur. The energy is not enough to fend off Torch again, though, and this time she is tossed limply to the mouth of the warriors' den.

"I could have raised you better," Torch scoffs.

Stonetail sees a bundle of grey fur smash into Torch's side just as she lets go.


	25. INTERLUDE VI

He knows he loves his brother. There is no doubt in Coal's mind that he would lay his life down in exchange for Clay's should the time come. Since he watched his father die defending his mother, since he watched his mother die defending her children, he has always known that he will be the next to die defending someone he loves.

When he arrived in the forest of pines, he never imagined he would extend his list of loved ones beyond his brother, but now, as the final barrier between Stonetail and her father, between Stonetail and death, he knows with complete certainty that his list has grown.

He can't bring himself to feel scared as he finally faces the yellow eyes he's run from all his life. There should be a mouse doing laps in his chest, pausing only to gnaw at his ribs before resuming its breakneck race, but he can hear his heartbeat in his ears. It's even, like the steady drip of rainwater from towering trees, and though it roars in his head, echoing over and over again, he cannot feel the fear he expects. Even Greystar lying in a heap, defeated after a valiant last stand just before he arrived, cannot inspire terror in his bones.

Perhaps Kiona felt this way when she died for her sons. He thinks about what his mother gave for him, for Clay, but only in the half-second before Torch's heavy paw floods his vision. Instinct says to run. Instinct also says to protect. Coal does a little of both, ducking below the blow but keeping himself squarely between the poles of love and hate. He hates Torch. He hates what Torch has done, is doing, will do. He hates Torch's yellow eyes and yellow teeth.

But he loves Stonetail. He doesn't love the Stonetail that fought with him after training apprentices, or the Stonetail that saw only mouse-lengths beyond her own nose. He does love, though, the Stonetail that lies bloodied in the dirt behind him. She is the Stonetail that ran into the unknown to ensure Clay's safety, the Stonetail that faced death by fox for a Clan other than her own, the Stonetail that went to face death alone to spare her friends from danger. That Stonetail, though by large imperfect, is the Stonetail he loves. That Stonetail has made choices. She has made sacrifices; Coal understands sacrifice.

"It's long past time you ought to be dead," Torch snarls, rearing up onto his hind legs to smash down on Coal's shoulders.

"Maybe," Coal replies, snaking forward to seize Torch's ankle in his jaws. He keeps moving, feels the grey tom crash to the ground behind him, and then realizes his mistake. He has opened an avenue to Stonetail.

Torch sees it, too. Murder on his mind, murder always on his mind, he kicks Coal away and stretches his claws. They glisten with Greystar's blood in the raging firelight, and Torch is prepared to add more of his daughter's blood to that mix.

Coal stops thinking. Later, he recalls forgetting to breathe. He simply acts, taking the nearest smoldering branch in his jaws and swinging the burning end into Torch's side. The stench of burnt fur fills the smoke-heavy air along with Torch's scream, and Coal feels satisfaction and bloodlust at once. How does it feel, he wonders, to lose to your greatest weapon?

He does not ask. There is no time to ask. He only resumes his position as Stonetail's defender, relief rushing through him as she raises her head, only to drop it again in the span of a heartbeat. At least she is alive, he tells himself. At least she is alive.

Somehow, this thought lends him the strength to survive longer than his father, longer than his mother. Though Torch outweighs him, Coal grapples without the sloppiness of fury, trusting instead in his desire to protect rather than destroy. The air is thick and hot; Coal only feels ice in his veins.

Clay and Streamheart appear beyond Torch at one point, rushing in from the dirtplace. The murderer does not see them, but Coal does. Until now, he has fought in silence, carefully controlled, but this is no longer a time for such discipline. He yowls, letting moons of rage surface as he lashes out at the yellow eyes, as intent on blinding them as he is on leading his brother and friend through the smoke. They will be able to rescue Stonetail; he can only do so much with his claws sunk into Torch's shoulders.

And so Coal catches glimpses of Clay and Streamheart bearing Stonetail out of camp. He spies Greystar crawling towards the fight though she cannot stand. Most of all, though, he sees his life's tormentor right before him, ready to kill him and consign him to ash.

It would be a decent way to go if any of his pride were left. Felled in battle, named posthumously as a valiant defender. Yet he does not want a glorified fate. He wants life and happiness and freedom and love. He wants all the things Torch ripped from him so long ago.

For the first time in his life, Coal does not run. He stays. He fights.

It feels good.


	26. XIX - DRIZZLE

She wakes with cool water lapping at her side. It tugs rhythmically at her fur, a gentle back and forth motion that soothes the throbbing pain hovering around her left shoulder. Maybe it never quite healed from being twisted, she thinks. But then she remembers the fire lashing against her side, bright as the sun as it seared her skin, and she knows the ache in her shoulder is not from her old injury.

Stonetail lets the water pass over her without opening her eyes. She listens without moving an inch, as if keeping still will wash away the aches and pains and tragedies. Against the bank, she hears the water splash lightly, and a soft grinding noise speaks of the streambed's pebbles shifting aside, making way for the body that trudges through the water.

"Do we move her yet?" asks Clay. Stonetail has never heard him so somber, and wonders if she is dead, if her body is being washed for burial in a stream. But her shoulder prickles, then throbs violently, so she must be alive.

"I think we can," Streamheart replies, her body humming with the words, vibrating against Stonetail's ear. Stonetail makes no sound as Clay slides beneath her rear legs, shouldering her weight with ease and lifting her free of the water. Streamheart leaves her crouch to follow Clay up the bank, and rivulets of water come pouring off Stonetail's side. Free of the cold stream, her injuries begin to sting outright.

Finally, she speaks. "Careful. Please."

Streamheart gasps, though softly enough that Stonetail only knows thanks to her ear pressed against the silver tabby's side. "We're trying," she promises, slowly lowering herself. Stonetail feels her tail brush against damp grass. "Robinfoot told us to hold you in the water for a little while because of your burn. How do you feel?"

She feels weak. Hazy. Smoked out and trampled upon. "Fine," she lies anyway, trying to stand the moment Clay and Streamheart move themselves out from beneath her. Still adjusting and aching, though, she doesn't get far, and lies down in the grass. Even Streamheart's probing paws, slick with some kind of paste, suddenly feel distant. In fact, nothing feels close except the slow, labored thump of her heart, again and again.

"You can't scratch at this," Streamheart says, her voice muffled. "Robinfoot says the poultice will only help if you leave it alone. We're going to cover it in cobwebs to be safe. All right?"

A raindrop splashes against Stonetail's nose, jolting her into focus. "Right," she manages. Slowly she opens her eyes, twisting to find Streamheart rubbing a yellowy paste into her side. The stinging has already begun to subside, and she sighs in relief. Already it feels better, though she wishes she could stand. Shouldn't they be going?

"I couldn't kill him," she says suddenly. His face looms before her mind's eye, and her heart lurches. "He's still out there. We have to go. He wants me dead." But every effort to rise is thwarted by her friends carefully pushing her back into the grass. Streamheart accidentally leaves a streak of sour yellow paste against Stonetail's neck.

"Wait until I'm done," she says, "and then we'll catch up with the others." Steadily she continues applying the paste, and when she finishes, she rinses her paws in the stream before swaddling Stonetail's shoulder in cobwebs. It's not the neat work of a medicine cat, all bulky and thick, but when Stonetail finds she can rise with help and put a little weight on each leg, she realizes she'll take it.

In silence, Clay and Streamheart help Stonetail along, pressed so close that her paws barely ghost the ground. They are doing nearly all the work, and Stonetail is grateful that she did not have a chance to peer into the stream. Whatever the extent of her injuries are, they cannot be pleasant if she is not allowed to walk on her own. As they go, Clay is uncharacteristically silent, his gaze focused well ahead. Occasionally, he breaks away to hold undergrowth aside for easier passage, and Stonetail wishes she were ignorant of the anxious pity in his eyes. The same concern radiates from Streamheart, who continually brushes her feathery tail over Stonetail's back in much the same way a queen would soothe a distressed kit. Stonetail feels small at the touch, powerless, but no matter how many times she pushes Streamheart's tail aside with her own, it comes back. Soon it dawns on her that the presence of Streamheart's tail is not for her benefit, and she stops fighting it.

After what feels like a lifetime of slinking through the fine, light rain, Clay speaks. "Not far," he says, returning from a brief foray ahead to clear the way. "The Clans are over the next hill. Featherstar led them there."

"Almost everyone is safe, too," Streamheart adds with a weak purr. Even after so much fire, so much death, she's trying to hold fast to hope. Stonetail can't help but purr, even if it sounds like the scrape of claws on stone, even if it feels that way in her bones. It isn't funny, and she isn't happy, but the purr fills her chest until it becomes too hard and bitter and real to bear anymore.

"Almost," she echoes wryly. "But not everyone." Even as she senses it's unfair, she looks to Clay, and he stiffens at her words. It's like her tongue is suddenly made of fire. "Where's your brother, Clay? Where's Greystar? How about most of BreezeClan? Or the queens who won't see their kits grow up? Torch killed them. They're dead, and _almost_ isn't good enough!"

The fight leaves her body all at once. Stumbling, wounds stinging, she can do nothing to stop herself from pitching toward the ground. Yet she does not meet the dirt. Fluid as ever, Streamheart surges into the way and breaks her fall. They halt their progress.

"You might be right about BreezeClan and the queens," says the silver warrior, "but you don't need to snap at us for it. And you don't know about Coal. He was fighting Torch when we carried you out so we could get away. There's still a chance he won."

"A chance," Stonetail scoffs. She had a chance, and nearly died all the same.

"Yes. So please breathe, and wait with us until we know more. Please?"

Clay sits down beside them, forcing his ears into a semblance of perkiness even though his tail drags limply in the earth. "Coal won't give up easily, either," he declares. "He isn't dead, and he won't be. I promise."

He's saying it more for himself. Fight extinguished, energy spent, Stonetail can't blame him. The tabby tom has spent his life at his brother's side, and has probably failed to imagine a world in which he walks alone. For Clay, a world without Coal is as impossible as day without night.

"I…I need to sit," Stonetail mumbles, leaning into Streamheart as her friend curls around her. Clay joins at her other side, giving her ears a kindly lick as he settles onto his belly. Despite her momentary flash of cruelty, they stay with her.

"We'll sit," Clay says. A faint twinkle lights his eyes, proof enough of his faith, of his hope.

There is so little else to hang onto. Stonetail latches onto the feeble hope that is not even her own, resting her chin on Clay's back. She coughs. A tremor races through her heart, knocking it off-kilter without warning and robbing her of breath. She will not be rising to her feet any time soon, and fighting to breathe past the taste of smoke in her mouth, she waits.

»»««

Stonetail does not remember drifting off. Exhaustion must have robbed her of consciousness shortly after the light rain stopped. Now, though, as she wakes, she realizes her dull aches have gone sharp, as has her mind. She moans and pulls her legs beneath her body as if to rise, but Clay stops her.

"Coal came back. Streamheart went with him to speak to Featherstar," he whispers, purring. The sound of his joy does not feel like joy, though, and Stonetail lies still as the tabby goes on. "They're going to be back soon. He wants to talk to us."

"We should go meet them," she insists after a long beat of silence. But when she tries to rise, she finds she can't escape the unsteadiness in her legs long enough to stand. Clay licks her forehead sadly and drapes his tail over her back. For once, he's more than willing to wait, and that alone keeps Stonetail from attempting to rise once more. Whatever Clay imagines his brother wants to speak about, it cannot be good.

The waiting does not take long, though. Coal and Streamheart's tired forms press through the undergrowth. The latter makes her way directly to Stonetail's side, touching her nose softly to the grey tabby's flank. The former, however, hangs back, hovering there until everyone acknowledges his presence.

The first words out of his mouth are "I'm sorry."

Greystar is gone. Coal takes a seat to recant his story in his carefully clipped way. When he reached the camp after helping Featherstar escape, he says, he watched from the dirtplace as Greystar and Torch fought for all they were worth. But Torch was stronger, healthier, and it wasn't a fair fight. Greystar was slammed into the ground and did not get up, not even as Torch turned his attention to Stonetail again. And so Coal fought until Clay and Streamheart arrived, and he fought until they left, and he fought until he thought he would be next.

Then he ran.

"I'm sorry," he says again, looking at his paws. "I wanted to take Greystar with me, but…I thought one cat alive was better than two dead."

Dead. It rings in Stonetail's ears, rattles in her skull. There has been so much death. First WillowClan; Mistpaw was left to cope with the three deaths that orphaned her. Then BreezeClan, poisoned by prey fool enough to drink tainted water. Then Thrushpaw. Thrushpaw could have been protected, could have been saved! Stonetail's throat constricts. Listing the remaining deaths, while tempting, is too much. The urge to retch is already strong enough.

Still Greystar hovers in mind. After all those moons of fighting tooth and claw over every little thing under the sun, Stonetail cannot believe she is dead. Not when she seemed so changed, so harried, so concerned at the end. Not when she meant to pass her only child onto a killer to keep her hold over the Clan at the beginning. Which is the real Greystar anyhow? It's impossible to tell and hurts to try.

Even worse is that Torch is now her only living kin, lost to the smoke and wind. Stonetail fights to breathe evenly, but when she notices Coal has lifted his gaze from his paws, she almost stops entirely. His posture is nervous, expectant, determined all at once. He is almost like the tom that fought tooth and claw to escape captivity when he first arrived. It seems so strange.

"There's something I need to do," he announces. His voice is steady, steadier than those gathered have heard in a long while.

"I have to leave."

Now no one breathes. The distant birdsong seems to fade, and perhaps the cool wind trundles to a halt. Stonetail's jaw drops open, and Streamheart's ears snap upright. It is Clay, though, who voices the protest they all feel.

"We can't go," he cries, leaping to his feet, fur fluffed out. "After all this? Coal, we have a home. We have a family again!" His voice breaks. "We can't go. Not now. We just can't."

Stonetail has seen Clay vulnerable before. She's seem him fret over the apprentices, worry that he's irritated the elders, wished that the Clan wouldn't hate him so much. He's been the one to show every hope and fear plainly since the start.

So when Coal leans his forehead against his brother's and says, "So stay," Stonetail freezes.

"You don't have to go this time," Coal chokes out. "It just has to be me."

"But it's always been us!" Clay squeezes his eyes shut and shakes Coal off. "Why do you have to go anyway?"

"I just do. Will you please trust me?" Coal tries to lick his brother's ear, but misses as the tabby bats his muzzle away, claws barely sheathed.

"Tell us why?" Stonetail asks suddenly, before Clay can reach the point of hysterics and actually hurt his brother. There is a long silence, broken here and again by Clay's ragged breathing. Coal meets Stonetail's eyes after a moment, though both can feel his desire to look away.

"I've been running a long time," he says slowly. "A really long time. Wherever the Clans go, that will still be running, so I'm going to go the other way.

"I'm going to find Torch, and this time, I will kill him. I almost had him tonight, and I can do it again. When I've done that, I'll find my way back, but I just…I have to stop running."

He looks at his brother. "This is your chance to be a warrior," he purrs. "You can keep a home and a family here. You can have the life you wanted."

"I didn't want that for just me," Clay replies, ears pinned back to his skull. He lashes his tail, but soon settles and falls back on his haunches. "But," he goes on, choosing every word carefully, "I'll protect the Clans until you come back. Come home. So you have a home to come back to."

"ShadeClan will take you in any time," Streamheart promises quietly. "As a warrior. We'll make sure of it."

Coal dips his head. "I hope so. I have been." Then he stands, once again looking at his paws as if the power to speak has deserted him. Stonetail supposes that he is no good with goodbyes, a thought confirmed when he wordlessly presses his forehead to Streamheart's, to Clay's, to her own. But Stonetail is no good at farewells, either. Her tongue curls back into her throat as the black tom turns his back. "Goodbye" dies on her lips as he crosses the grass. "Be safe" meets a similar fate as he sets one paw into the undergrowth.

"Coal, wait!" makes it out loud and clear. Coal stops.

"What?"

It's a good question. Stonetail hasn't a clue what she wants to say. There has been no time to think, to rehearse. But as her shoulder begins to itch, she asks, "When you find him, will you do me a favor?"

"Anything but spare him," he replies.

She shrugs her cobweb-coated shoulder even though it burns to do so. "Carve him up. For me."

"Consider it done."

And then they watch as Coal vanishes into the ruined forest of pines. The faithful shadow disappears at last. No one moves at first, as if they all mourn a death that may or may not come to pass, but eventually, Clay and Streamheart are ready to move on. Tenderly, they fall into position to support Stonetail, but she finds herself limping ahead of them, following the heady scent of fear coming over the ridge. The remains of the Clans must wait there still. She knows it's far-fetched, but for a heartbeat, she wonders if they wait for her.

She is coming, whether they wait for her or not, and as she hikes up the hill, her shoulder aches.

It will be her best reminder.


	27. EPILOGUE

The storm has passed. Smoke lingers in the damp air, and stray pockets of flame smolder, on their way out. The greenleaf birdsong is absent, leaving the morning to march on without a symphony to accompany it. It seems as if whatever life the forest once held has been snuffed out; even the mighty pines have fallen.

There is a hint of movement, though. The pines have fallen, yes, but not all have burned. Their massive, charred trunks lean on one another to create a web of scorched wood and creaking boughs that shed needles onto the parched earth with every feeble gust of wind. One such construction rests over the remains of ShadeClan, creating the tiniest pocket of shelter on the very edge of the ravaged camp. The gap beneath these timbers is a narrow squeeze for anything larger than a rabbit, and the sooty grass is slick from the rain. Runoff steadily drips past the gap's opening, beginning to form a small pool.

From this pool, a haggard grey shadow drinks its fill. A gash in its chest drops hardened flecks of blood into the water. The scratch across its nose forces it to snort and huff, laboring to breathe as it laps at the water.

A crow squawks from above. The shadow startles, limping back below the fallen pines to watch as the bird glides to earth, landing below a nearby branch to peck at something in the dirt.

The shadow bunches its legs, squares its shoulders, lowers its tail. In one grand, creaking leap, it lands atop the bird, sinking shining fangs into its neck and twisting until bones snap.

These will not be the last bones snapped by the shadow, not if it has anything to say about it. Hungrily it devours the crow, blood staining grey fur reddish brown, and when it finishes, it casts the bones aside to look up at the cloudy sky. Overhead, there is not a storm to be seen.

In the green eyes below, an old one is brewing.


End file.
